


Abducted

by Twice_before_Friday



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Abduction, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Malcolm Bright Whump, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-12 17:02:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 29,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21479779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twice_before_Friday/pseuds/Twice_before_Friday
Summary: Malcolm Bright has been abducted by a serial killer that bleeds and strangles their victims.  Can Gil and the team find him in time?  Can Malcolm hold on long enough?
Comments: 160
Kudos: 378





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm beyond obsessed with this show. It's taken over my life. Hopefully I've done it justice?
> 
> The italicized sections are flashbacks, in case it isn't clear.
> 
> I started writing this around episode 5, and obviously the subsequent episodes have provided more information and insight into the characters and the past. Unfortunately, I was too far into the story to fix some of the things (like the gender of Martin's victims), so apologies for the discrepancies.
> 
> I'll try to post daily (ish), as I'm almost done the story.

Gil and Dani raced down the rain-slicked pavement, footfalls echoing through the empty street, hurrying towards the sound of the gunshot that split the night only moments ago. Dani made it to the corner first and slowed down to peek quickly around the edge of the old brick storefront before turning into the narrow laneway, gun drawn and steps even. Gil swung around the corner just behind her, staggering his position from hers, gun raised as well. They made their way carefully down the dark passage – lit only indirectly by streetlights at either end of the street – stepping over broken bits of concrete and other construction detritus, clearing doorways and stairwells where the killer could be hiding before moving any farther in. They were about halfway down the lane when they found what they were praying they wouldn’t.

JT was lying on the ground, too still, and even with the dim light and wet pavement, the pool of red underneath him was unmistakable. Gil gave a quick nod to Dani and remained standing, keeping a vigilant watch down the alley while Dani crouched down and checked for a pulse. She let out a shaky breath when she felt the faint beat under her fingers then holstered her gun and grabbed her phone to call for an ambulance.

“10-13, officer shot, send an ambulance to Staple Street immediately!” she shouted, then abruptly hung up and slipped her phone back into her pocket.

“How’s he doing, Powell?” Gil asked, taking only brief glances towards his team as he kept the gun pointed to the edge of laneway.

Dani was in the middle of stripping off her jacket and cardigan, using the cardigan to apply pressure to the wound. The contact caused JT to let out a weak grunt, but he remained resolutely unconscious. He had been shot about an inch below his right clavicle, and a quick pass of her hand beneath him let her know that it had gone clean through.

“It’s a through and through. Pulse is weak but steady,” she said as she leaned over him, listening for breath sounds. “His breathing seems okay. Where the fuck is Bright?”

“Stay with JT,” Gil ordered, “I'll check up ahead and see if there’s any sign of him.”

Gil continued his search, gun at the ready, up until he hit the street, checking both ways for any indication that Bright or the suspect had been there. Unfortunately, there was nothing to go on. The streets were nearly deserted due to the earlier thunderstorm and the late hour. 3:30 in the morning; too late for the club scene, too early for the working class.

He jogged back to Dani and JT, holstering his weapon as he went. He could hear sirens in the distance and thanked God for the quick response time.

“No sign of Bright,” he said as Dani looked up at him questioningly. He knelt down beside her and gently tapped JT's cheek. “Come on, pal, I need you to wake up now.”

He received another murmured groan at that, and Gil huffed out a relieved breath. He moved his hand back through JT's hair but pulled back when he felt something sticky and warm.

“Damn it,” Gil whispered as he grabbed his phone and tapped on the flashlight. He shined the light on JT's head and found a nasty gash towards the back of his head. “He has a head injury too. We need that ambulance.”

All at once, the streets lit up in flashes of red and white as the ambulance turned the corner, casting shadows left then right, lending a slightly surreal feeling to the scene. Within minutes the paramedics were by JT's side.

“Gunshot wound to the chest,” Dani informed them as they rushed over, “and a head injury, too. He's been out the whole time but seems to be coming around.”

The paramedics took over and following some preliminary examinations, they compressed and bandaged the wound, inserted an IV and loaded JT onto the stretcher.

“Stay with him, Powell,” Gil said as he led her towards the ambulance with a hand on her back. “I'll wait here for back-up and start canvassing the area, hopefully someone saw something. Keep me updated.”

“Will do boss.”

Gil shut the doors once JT was loaded in with Dani and the paramedics, then rapped on the back of the bus to give the driver the all clear. He watched the ambulance drive away until it turned the corner out of sight, taking the light along with it and leaving Gil standing alone, shoulders slumped and looking lost in the renewed darkness. He had three members on his team, and he was responsible for them all. Right now, one was missing and one was on his way to the hospital.

He shook himself from his thoughts as he pulled out his phone and dialed Bright's number, anxiously waiting while it rang, and hanging up when the voicemail kicked in. He tried three more times before putting his phone away.

_This can’t be happening. _Inhaling deeply, he cleared his mind. It was time to get to work.

**********

The ambulance pulled into the Emergency ward of the hospital in record time. JT was starting to come around as they wheeled him through the halls and into an ER trauma room. Dani was hoping to get a chance to talk with him, but a very stern nurse with a very tight ponytail told her to wait outside while they assessed the damage. Dani bit her tongue and did as she was told. Like all cops, she learned early on that pissing off the nurses would put you two steps back in any investigation where a victim or perp was hospitalized. She went over to the waiting room intending to text Gil an update that they had arrived at the hospital, but just then noticed the alarming amount of blood on her hands and up her arms.

She headed to the bathroom but faltered when she caught a look at herself in the mirror. She must have unconsciously wrapped her arms around herself in the ambulance to ward off the cold, since she had abandoned her jacket and sweater in the alley. Unfortunately, a substantial amount of blood was now staining a strip right across the middle of her silk blouse.

The blouse was given up as a lost cause immediately, she knew there would be no way to save it. Ignoring it for the time being, she went to the sink and began washing her hands and arms, soaping and rinsing until the water eventually ran clean. She splashed some cool water on her face and took a few deep breaths before drying off and heading back to the waiting area. She texted Gil and then took up pacing back and forth while she waited, heels clicking monotonously on the vinyl.

It was only about 10 minutes until Nurse Ponytail came out to speak with her. Dani looked at her expectantly as she strode into the room.

“He was lucky,” the nurse said, and Dani again had to bite her tongue, wanting to tell her that there is no world where a bullet ripping through your body is lucky. “It looks like the bullet missed all the major veins and arteries and the bleeding has been controlled for the time being. He’s lost a lot of blood and is being transfused as we speak and will be heading to the OR in a few minutes to repair the damage. The head injury was likely obtained when he fell to the ground. He has a mild concussion and needed a few stitches, but it’s nothing to be concerned about. However, he’s refusing treatment until he speaks to either Danny or Gil? Is that you?”

“Yeah,” Dani said, “Detective Dani Powell. Can I speak to him now?”

“Follow me please,” she said, clearly disapproving of the delay of medical treatment.

She followed the nurse out of the waiting area and down a number of hallways until they came to a room with large swinging doors. They went in and found a pageant of organized chaos. Two nurses were buzzing back and forth, connecting leads to various parts of JT's body and checking on the numerous IV tubes that were currently flowing into him. Bloody gauze littered the floor, but no one seemed to be paying it any mind.

JT was reclined on the stretcher, wan and clammy and clearly in a great deal of pain. His left hand was holding the railing of the stretcher in a death grip and his breaths were coming in short controlled huffs.

“Pain killers?” Dani asked Nurse Ponytail (whose name badge said Nancy, she just noticed).

“He refused that until he spoke to you as well.” Nancy was clearly exasperated.

Dani turned back to JT with a smirk. “How you doing?”

“It was a set up,” JT grunted. “He was waiting. And he wanted Bright.”

“What?!”

“He wasn’t running to get away. It was to get Bright to follow him into that alley.” JT's words were coming out in short, painful gasps as he avoided taking deep breaths that would expand his chest and pull on the wound. “ He had a dark four-door sedan waiting, license plate started with GEV. It was dark green? Maybe blue? It was hard to see for sure in the dark. Sorry.” JT was clearly upset about not knowing all the details.

“Don’t worry, JT, we’ll find him, okay?” Dani said, laying a hand on JT's blanket-covered shin. “Now please, let them fix you up so you can get back to work?”

JT snorted a chuckle and gave Dani a weak smile. “Yeah.”

He closed his eyes, and Dani turned and headed out into the hallway, pulling out her phone as she walked. She waited until she was out of the hospital before she dialed Gil's number, then climbed into a waiting cab (with a leery look from the cab driver – she'd need to change her shirt sooner rather than later) disregarding pleasantries as she answered his greeting with “We have a problem. Meet me at the station.”

**********

Malcolm came to slowly, head pounding and disoriented. It took a few seconds to realize that the reason he couldn’t move wasn’t due to his night-time restraints, but rather that his hands were duct-taped behind his back. Once he realized that, the adrenaline finished waking him quite quickly. He noticed his feet were restrained, and a piece of tape had been hastily slapped over his mouth as well.

He was clearly in the trunk of a car. And that car was going fast. Freeway fast. Depending on how long he'd been unconscious, he could be extremely far from Gil and the team, maybe even outside of New York.

Unfortunately, he was still a bit foggy about what had landed him in the trunk of a car. Focusing his thoughts, he started to replay the last couple of days in his head to see if he could make sense of his current predicament.

_They were searching for a serial killer. Obviously. Six bodies in two weeks. All strangled. All of the victims with various incisions over their bodies, and not a whole lot of blood left inside. Victims ranged all across the board and seemed to have no connection to one another. Different genders, different ages, different races, different socio-economic backgrounds. The city was in a panic. Anyone could be next._

Okay. So that was all clear in his head. He remembered that he had been missing something. Something that was right at the periphery of his mind. Something he knew he should have noticed.

_It was just after 11 when Gil told him to go home and get some sleep. He argued that sleep was not in the cards for him so why bother leaving, but Gil insisted and there was no point fighting it. Gil drove him home, and Bright had pointedly ignored the concerned looks Gil was giving him as he manically restated case facts the whole ride. They pulled up in front of Malcolm's place and Gil begged him to take a break for the night and try to sleep. Malcolm just smiled at him and slipped out of the car._

_He let himself into his apartment and went right back to work, combing through the victim's bios, searching for the elusive thread that would tie them all together. And then it happened. He was re-reading the statement that the fiancée of victim #4, Kelsey Buckler, had given. He talked about what a strong woman his fiancée was. She trained and meditated daily and was a 5th degree blackbelt. They had actually met at the dojo. She confided in him that when she was 20, a friend had disappeared one night, vanished when she went out for a smoke at a club they were at. It had shaken her so badly that she refused to leave her house at night for nearly a year. Eventually she started taking martial arts classes to get into peak mental and physical condition, and to overcome her fear._

_Malcolm had been impressed by her initiative when he heard that but hadn’t thought much about it outside of that. But now. Now the alarm bells were ringing in his head. With shaking hands he retrieved the hidden box of memorabilia from his father’s murders and started scanning through the newspaper clippings. And there it was. An article about a young woman who had vanished from a nightclub. About halfway through was a quote from a friend who had been at the club with her that night._

_“ 'I just don’t understand,' said a tearful Kelsey Buckler, close friend to the missing woman, 'how can someone just disappear. How can I ever feel safe again?' ”_

_Heart beating double time, Malcolm called Gil, who was supremely unimpressed to be woken up after only an hour of sleep._

_“I need your access to some NYPD case files right now,” Malcolm interrupted Gil's muttered grumblings, “I have a theory.”_

All of the events leading up to his abduction came flooding back to Malcolm in a sudden rush. The memory of the breakthrough in the case and everything that that followed started to meld with memories from his childhood and his night terrors, and suddenly his position in the cramped car trunk was all too similar to the girl in the box. The trepidation he was feeling about his current situation – he knew exactly what this killer was going to do to him – combined with the terrors of his past and threw him into a severe panic. He started thrashing against the restraints, kicking as hard he could against the trunk, the taillights, the back of the seat. He was starting to hyperventilate, and the tape over his mouth was suffocating him. He screamed as loud as he could, but with the tape covering his mouth and his laboured breathing, all it did was make things worse.

Lost in panic, he didn’t even notice that the car had stopped. His vision, already blurred with tears, was starting to go fuzzy around the edges when the lid of the trunk popped open.

“Oh Malcolm,” his captor said with a smile, “you’re making this so easy.” He leaned over and held a cloth to Malcolm’s nose, holding the back of his head to keep him steady as he thrashed about. In a matter of seconds, Malcolm stopped struggling as his world went black.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness, everyone. Thank you so much for all the wonderful comments and kudos! I'm feeling surprisingly warm and fuzzy on the inside, so thank you all for that!

Dani and Gil were in the conference room at the station, going over anything that might tell them where Malcolm was being held. Empty take-away coffee cups were scattered amongst the folders and photos across the table. It was 6:00 in the morning and Malcolm had now been missing for 2 ½ hours.

Two detectives joined them in the room, settling in on the opposite site of the table.

“What have you got so far?” Detective Robert Sanders asked. He was only in his late twenties, young for a detective, clean cut and earnest looking. He had a reputation throughout the precinct as a hard worker, eager to help and anxious to make a difference in the city, which meant half the precinct respected him and the other half treated him like a child. Dani and Gil were both pleased to have his help on offer. “Malcolm Bright may not be a cop, but he’s part of your team so this is an attack on us all. We’re here to help however you need us.”

Sanders looked to his partner, Detective Greg Bennett, for agreement. Bennett nodded, but didn’t seem quite as concerned. He was in his forties, thickening through the middle, and word around the station was that he didn’t particularly appreciate his young partner’s ambitiousness. He certainly didn’t look overly pleased to be at the station at 6 in the morning.

Gil gave Sanders a brief but genuine smile. “Bright was abducted around 3:30 this morning. According to JT, it was a targeted abduction. Fortunately, there was a friendly store-owner two blocks down that allowed us access to his surveillance footage without having to wait for a warrant. It looks like JT was right – Bright was taken in a Green Toyota Camry. The car is registered to a Jason Martins, but our suspect is one Francis Page. We’re about to look into Martins and are trying to track the car using traffic cams.”

Sanders was looking over all of the folders on the table and the photos on the board at the front of the room. “Look, I know the priority is finding Mr. Bright,” he said, “but maybe it would help if you could give us a quick once over on what you’ve discovered about the killer and victims? If we have more information about the suspect, maybe we can help find Mr. Bright a bit quicker.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right. You've already heard about the serial murders the last few weeks,” Gil said, while Sanders pulled out a notebook and started taking notes. “The night before last, Bright had a breakthrough about why the victims were chosen. He called me around one in the morning and asked me to pull an old case file. One of the victims of The Surgeon.”

_Gil headed back over to Malcolm's place immediately after he got off the phone with him and found Malcolm already pacing the sidewalk when pulled up. They went straight to the storage facility where old NYPD case files and evidence was stored. It took a bit of time and a few trips to the car to pick up all of the victim files relating to The Surgeon, but they made it back to the precinct shortly after 4:00 am. _

_“Right, so I’m fairly certain that victim #4, Kelsey Buckler, had been the friend of one of Dr. Whitly's victims,” Malcolm said, frantically searching through folders in one of the boxes of files they had carted in with them. He let out brief “aha!” when he found it and continued on. “Here we are. The Surgeon killed Lacey Evans back in 1996. She had been at a club with a group of friends, went outside for a cigarette and never came back. Police at the time interviewed all of the friends that had been with her and…” Malcolm scanned the interview listing and found what he was looking for, slamming his hand down on the paper. “Yes! Here. Kelsey Buckler was one of the friends with her that night. Why didn’t I remember that?” Malcolm turned to the window, one hand on his head the other on his hip, and Gil could tell he was already starting to beat himself up._

_“Kid, no one would remember one name out of all the names throughout these files,” Gil attempted to stop Malcolm’s guilt trip before he could get washed away in it. “Let’s just go through these files and see if the rest of your theory pans out.”_

_Malcolm turned back around, biting his lip, but nodding his agreement. “Okay, when we found the last victim, I thought his name seemed familiar. Let’s start there.” He went to the board and pointed at the photo of the victim that had been found less than 48 hours prior. “James Garrison, 68. Retired professor. It's too bad these files haven’t been digitized yet. How do we find out if he had any connection with one of The Surgeon's victims?”_

_“We go through all The Surgeon files, see if his name comes up in the lists of friends, families, witnesses?” Gil suggested._

_“That’s going to take too long,” Malcolm exclaimed as he started pacing the floor in front of the box-laden table. “This killer is working at an accelerated pace, Gil. We have six victims so far. The longer we wait, the more bodies will pile up!”_

_“Bright. You need to take a step back. We’re going to work the lead, but we can only do so much. I’m going to go call Dani and JT, get them in here to review the files with us. How about you take a few deep breaths while I’m gone?” Gil arched an eyebrow at Malcolm and then headed to his office to call in his team._

_Malcolm stopped his pacing and leaned forward with his hands on the table, head drooped down, and took the recommended deep breaths. Which apparently cleared his head enough to give an him an idea._

_He scanned through the information on James Garrison and found his home phone number. Within seconds he was dialing, careless of the fact that it was the middle of the night. Mrs. Garrison answered with a sleepy and fearful “hello?”_

_“Mrs. Garrison. I’m so sorry to wake you. It’s Malcolm Bright with the NYPD, we spoke yesterday? Or, I suppose it would be the day before, now.” Malcolm paused, waiting for a sign of recognition._

_“Yes, Mr. Bright. I remember.” She sounded heartbroken and exhausted, and Malcolm was feeling rather sorry to have woken her up from a dream back into a nightmare._

_“Mrs. Garrison, I know this may sound like a very odd question, but are you aware of a connection your husband may have had to a serial called The Surgeon that was active in New York about 20 years ago? Any connection at all, no matter how tangential?” Malcolm waited expectantly, shaking hand clamped into a tight fist._

_“Does this have something to do with why he was…” she trailed off. The word 'murdered' just too heavy to state out loud. _

_“It’s a theory at this point, but I’m hoping you can help us get a step closer to catching your husband’s killer.”_

_She let out a choked sob at that, but quickly regained her composure. “He was a professor at NYU at the time. Sarah Richardson had been a star pupil of his, but that was a few years before she was killed by that monster. James had invested a great deal of time in her, said that he could tell she was going to be something special. He was devastated when he heard about it on the news. But he never had anything to do with the investigation, or any contact with the killer.”_

_Malcolm's eyes widened at the news. “So he had been someone important in her life?”_

_“Oh yes. She often credited her success to him. They kept in contact after she graduated, she even came to dinner at the house a few times. She was a lovely girl.”_

_“Thank you very much Mrs. Garrison. You’ve been incredibly helpful. I will keep you updated if this leads to any new information.” They bid one another goodnight as Gil was walking back into the room._

_“Dani and JT are on their way. Who were you talking to?” Gil asked._

_“Mrs. Garrison,” Malcolm said, bracing for Gil's disapproval._

_“What the hell, kid?!” Gil shouted. “That woman just lost her husband; she doesn’t need you hounding her in the middle of the night!”_

_Malcolm had the grace to look contrite, but continued on “I know, Gil. I’m sorry. But I was right! Her husband was connected with one of The Surgeon's victims!”_

_Gil pursed his lips but had to admit, at least to himself, that Bright's way was certainly faster. _

“So, wait,” Sanders interrupted Gil's recap of their case so far, “you’re saying that that the serial killer, who currently has Bright, has been killing people that knew the women who were killed by Bright's father?”

Dani looked up suddenly, surprised by Sanders' statement. They'd been trying to keep Bright's relationship to Martin Whitly under wraps. Many people didn’t react well when they found that out, and Malcolm had a hard enough time keeping a cordial relationship with colleagues as it was.

“Word gets around,” Detective Bennett scoffed. 

“Look,” Sanders said, breaking the tension created at Bennett's tone. “It doesn’t matter who his dad was, I've seen the work he does with your team, and he’s obviously a great profiler. I just want to help find him. I only asked about the connection because… Well.” He let the sentence trail off, hands fidgeting on the table, unsure suddenly if he should finish the thought.

“Because,” Dani finished, “if a serial killer obsessed with Bright's dad has him, there’s a good possibility that he’s already dead?”

Sanders grimaced at the blunt statement, but it was clearly what he had been thinking.

“We know it’s a possibility,” Gil sighed, “but all of the other victims were kept alive for 24-72 hours. We’re hoping we have time.”

**********

The next time Malcolm regained consciousness, he found himself slumped on a metal folding chair, wrists and ankles still bound with duct tape, but his mouth was now uncovered. His head lolled back and forth as he tried to blink himself awake, but before he was fully aware of his surroundings, he felt something squeezing around his neck, pulling him upwards.

He shakily got to his feet as the pressure around his throat continued to crush his larynx. His eyes were fully open at this point, frantically looking around to find out what was happening. He quickly determined that there was a rope around his throat (1/2-inch braided nylon, his mind helpfully supplied), and that it was leading up to a pulley on the roof. He followed the line of the rope from the pulley to the wall beside the door, where Francis Page was pulling the rope in, hand over hand.

“You should probably get up on that chair Malcolm,” he said conversationally, “if you want to keep breathing, anyways.”

Malcolm's air was entirely cut off at this point. He was straining on his tiptoes, and with his hands and feet restrained as they were, he didn’t really have any options. In order to get his feet up on the chair, he was going to have to let the rope around his neck support all of his weight. Images of the six victims were flashing behind Malcolm’s eyes, as he was seeing firsthand exactly where the bruises around their necks came from.

He closed his eyes and offered a prayer to a God he didn’t believe in as he lifted his feet off the ground and swung them forward onto the chair. It took a moment to gain purchase on the slippery surface of the chair, and Malcolm felt a degree of terror that was new even to him.

Once he finally had his footing and was standing upright on the chair, Francis stopped pulling on the rope and started to tie it off on a cleat hitch attached to the wall. Malcolm took a gasping breath, stretching out his neck to try to ease the pain in his throat. The rope had been pulled taut enough that, if he slouched, it would start to cut off his air supply, but if he remained standing tall, he would be able to breathe easily.

He took advantage of the time that Francis was occupied tying off the rope to evaluate his surroundings. The room wasn’t terribly large, maybe 20x25 feet, but the walls were completely covered in grey acoustic soundproofing panels. His stomach dropped as he realized exactly what that meant. The floors and ceiling were wood, cedar maybe, warm and rustic, and had been left uncovered. Malcolm spared a moment to think how much better the noise reduction would be if Page had bothered to use the panels on the full room, rather than just the walls. Serial killers these days. They were getting lazy. Then he realized he was possibly on the road to hysteria and took a few deep breaths to calm his frayed nerves.

Francis finished tying off the rope and casually made his way over to Malcolm, one hand in his pocket, the other swinging idly by his side.

“I know you,” Malcolm said, brows furrowed and head tilted slightly as he looked over his captor. He was astonishingly average looking and completely forgettable. Roughly 5'9, brown hair and eyes, probably weighed in at 170lbs or so. “Jesus Christ,” Malcolm breathed out, as he placed him. “You work at Claremont.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Okay,” Sanders said, “so you found out the current victims were all tied in to the murders from 20 years ago. Where were you able to go from there?”

Dani had brought a laptop into the room while Gil was catching Sanders and Bennett up on the case. She was basically ignoring the conversation in favour of continuing the search for the Camry, street by street. It was easy (and logical) to track his course from Staple Street to the Holland Tunnel, obviously he'd want to get off the island ASAP. After that is was a matter of checking traffic cameras at every intersection to see if the car passed through. If not, she would backtrack to where she last saw the car and find a camera on a street where he may have turned. Luck, guess work and patience. But that was all she had at the moment, so it would have to do.

“It led us to Francis Page,” Gil said, continuing his narrative.

_Dani and JT arrived at the precinct looking tired but ready to dive into old case files. They didn’t expect to walk into a shouting match between Malcolm and Gil. _

_“Seeing him is killing you Malcolm!” Gil was shouting loudly enough that they heard him before they even opened the door. “I never should have let you go to him during that first case, and I sure as hell don’t want you going to him now. You’re not sleeping, your tremors are worse, you’re getting manic again. You can’t keep going to him for help!”_

_“I'm fine Gil!” Malcolm retorted, while Dani and JT shot each other weary glances. “And this killer would absolutely have made contact with him at some point. Martin Whitly is our best lead and you know it. And since I’m the only one he’s willing to talk to, it has to be me that goes.” Malcolm took a breath and quietly added a muttered “but thanks for pointing out my shortcomings,” as he stormed out of the room._

_Gil threw his hands in the air and let out an exasperated sigh. “Dani, go with Bright. He can fill you in on the way while JT and I go through the files here.”_

_“Oooookay,” she replied. “And where exactly are we going?”_

_“Claremont Psychiatric Hospital.”_

_Dani and JT both looked a bit surprised, but Dani just turned around and followed Bright while JT took a seat so Gil could fill him in on what had happened in the last few hours._

_Dani caught up to Malcolm as he was trying to flag down a cab. “Come on, I'll drive.”_

_He gave her a searching look but acquiesced and followed her to her car with a nod._

_He filled her in on what they had discovered as she drove, the streets starting to fill with morning commuters. As they pulled up the hospital, he concluded “His psychopathy demands that he reach out to the object of his obsession. He would have tried to contact Dr. Whitly on multiple occasions. Even if Gil thinks that I can’t do this, it’s our best shot of finding the killer before he kills again.”_

_“Bright,” Dani said with her trademark mix of sympathy and annoyance, “you know it’s not that he doesn’t think you can do it. He’s just worried what it will cost you.” _

_Malcolm remained stiffly facing forward as he quietly but firmly stated “It doesn’t matter what the cost is. If it leads us to the killer before he strikes again, it will be worth it.”_

_“It does matter, Bright,” she said, placing a hand on his forearm where it rested on his lap._

_They stayed frozen like that for a moment, Bright avoiding eye contact and Dani hoping the message would sink in, before Malcolm moved to exit the car. Dani moved to follow him and Bright stated “he won’t talk to you.”_

_“I know. I’ll wait at the front.”_

_They went through the large front doors and through the first of many security check points and locked doors. Dani had to flash her badge to gain admittance at such an early hour, but eventually they were given the clearance to continue on. They signed in with the bored looking security guard before stepping through to the metal detector. Dani was told she could wait there or lock her gun in one of the lockboxes they had for precisely that reason._

_“I’ll be here if you need me,” she said to Malcolm._

_He gave her a quick smile and then continued on to his father’s cell, the tremor in his hand becoming more prevalent the closer he got._

_He took a breath before entering the cell. His father was sitting on the side of the bed, eyes half lidded and hair even more of a riot than usual, obviously having been woken up for the visit._

_“Malcolm, my boy,” he rasped, voice unused. “I’m always happy to see you, you know that, but can we possibly agree on more civilized visiting hours?”_

_Bright flexed his hand twice before making a fist and saying the words his father had desperately been wanting to hear. _

_“I need your help.”_

_Martin lit up. It was like a fire had suddenly ignited in his eyes. He rose from the bed and walked as close to Malcolm as his tether would allow. Malcolm resisted the urge to look away as his father gazed intently at him, searching for something, and though Malcolm didn’t know what he was looking for, he was disconcertingly concerned that Martin would find him lacking._

_“The murders over the last two weeks,” Martin surmised. “Your sister does a wonderful job sounding appropriately distressed while still conveying a sense of excitement, don’t you think? _

_“The killer is targeting people who were close to your victims. Friends, professors, people who aren’t close enough to raise any red flags with the police immediately, but who had been important to the women you killed.” Malcolm stated, still maintaining eye contact._

_“A fan,” Martin smiled, eyes crinkling. “It’s always nice to feel appreciated.”_

_Malcolm looked away, trying to hide the disgust that flashed across his features. Martin reigned himself in a little, his smile morphing briefly to a sneer before he calmly asked, “and what exactly are you hoping I can do about it?”_

_“Like you said,” Malcolm stated, taking a step back and starting to pace just outside of the red line, “he’s a fan. Obsessed. He would have been compelled to contact you.”_

_“I don’t get many visitors, Malcolm.”_

_“But I guarantee you get letters from admirers; probably more when you were first convicted, but likely you still get dozens every year. And considering you’re a profound narcissist, I’m betting you keep them.” Malcolm turned to look at Martin. “So what I’m asking you, Dr. Whitly, is will you let me go through your fan mail?”_

_Martin's jaw clenched for a moment, a flash of anger in his eyes, but then he grinned. “And why should I let you have these hypothetical letters, Malcolm? Why would I want to help you catch this alleged devotee of mine?”_

_“I suppose telling you 'it's the right thing to do' is probably not a good enough reason?” Malcolm said under his breath. “What do you want, Dr. Whitly?”_

_“Well for starters, you could start calling me dad again,” Martin said brightly. “This whole 'Doctor Whitly' thing seems unnecessarily formal.”_

_Bright's breathing picked up for a moment and he had to stuff his hand in his pocket to control the increasing tremors. “Okay then. Dad. What else.”_

_“Weekly visits for the next 3 months.” Martin noticed how Malcolm's face fell. But he also noticed the look of resignation in his eyes. “You’re the only contact to the outside world that I have Malcolm. And I’ve missed you. I just want the chance to repair our relationship.” _

_“I will agree to your terms. Dad,” he said caustically, “I will visit you weekly for 3 months. But don’t expect this become some father-son bonding, Kumbaya, reconnecting experience. This is quid pro quo. Nothing less and certainly nothing more.” Malcolm was so enraged he didn’t even notice that he had crossed the red line for the first time since he’d left for Quantico._

_Martin almost regretted his terms when he noticed how distressed Malcolm was, even though he knew he could have asked for so much more and Malcolm would have capitulated. He wanted to go to him, comfort him, but he also knew the best thing he could do for Malcolm at this moment was to let him get out of this cell so he could calm down. _

_“Thank you, Malcolm,” he said softly, taking two steps back in order to give Malcolm the space that he was sure to need when he realized he'd inadvertently crossed the line. “My therapist keeps all my 'fan mail' as you call it. You’re welcome to take it with you.”_

_Malcolm seemed confused by Martin’s unexpected compassion, but just gave a slight nod and turned to leave, freezing for a moment when he became aware of just where he was standing. _

_He walked straight-backed through the two sets of doors in his father’s sight and waited until he was fully out of view of his father’s cell before he leaned back against the wall, trying to control his breathing and calm his rapid heartbeat. He slid down the wall into a crouch and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. He was startled to feel a hand on his shoulder and looked over to find Dani at his side. _

_“The cost was too high,” she said._

_He took one last deep breath. “I'm fine. Honestly, it’s a nice change to be angry instead of frightened when I come here. He’s manipulating me. But I know it, and I’m allowing it. Does that give him the power? Or me? Either way, he gave me access to his mail. Let’s get it and get out.”_

_They headed back to the entrance where Dani collected her gun and the bored security guard called the on-shift therapist for them. After a brief argument regarding patient rights to confidentiality (which Dani's badge did nothing to resolve, but confirmation from Martin that he had given his permission finally settled), they were handed a banker's box marked in neat block letters with Martin's name and inmate number, stuffed full of letters._

_Dani watched Malcolm's shoulders relax as they stepped out of the building into the breaking dawn, easing her concern slightly. She could only imagine how hard it must be for someone with all of Malcolm’s mental complications to be in a place like Claremont. _

_He was quiet most of the way back to the station, just mumbling a quiet “thank you, Dani” as they pulled up to the precinct again. She shot him a smile and they headed in together, ready to find their serial killer._

_**********_

“You’re the guard that signed me in yesterday,” Malcolm said. “How did you get clearance to work in a high-security psychiatric facility?” The surprise of recognizing the killer temporarily distracted him from the pain that had been building in his shoulders since he woke up in the trunk of the car. He didn’t know how long his hands had been taped behind his back at this point, but his fingers had passed the pins and needles phase a while ago, and his shoulders were seized up and aching.

Francis shot Malcolm a look of derision. “Really, Malcolm, I’m expecting more from you. If this is going to work, I’m going to need you to stop asking stupid questions.”

“If what is going to work?”

“I have questions. About Doctor Whitly, and about your relationship with him. You’re going to answer them for me,” he stated matter-of-factly. “And, of course, you’re going to die when I’m done. So, first things first,” he clapped his hands once, loudly, then rubbed them together, startling Malcolm and causing him to wobble slightly on his chair. “I still have a few things that I need to prepare. You came around quicker than I expected so I’m not quite ready. Suppose you must have built a tolerance with all the medication you’re on.”

His eyes roamed over Malcolm’s bound form, “So why don’t you just hang out here for a bit while I finish my preparations, hmm?” He chuckled to himself as he headed to the door, pulling a key out of the inside pocket of his grey bomber jacket. He used it to open the heavy steel padlock that was securing the thick metal latch installed at eye level. From the looks of it, Francis had cut a swath of the soundproofing off the door to add the latch lock. As soon as the door shut behind him, Malcolm heard the muffled sound of a key in a lock and heard the tumblers fall as it locked him in.

“Okay,” Malcolm whispered to himself, “now is not the time to panic. Now is the time to profile.”

He started an extensive review in his mind of everything he knew about Francis Page.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You have all been so kind and supportive with your lovely comments and kudos that I was inspired to buckle down and am now farther ahead than I expected to be. So, here's another chapter for you!

_Dani and Malcolm arrived in the conference room just as JT was moving some of the boxes from the table into the corner. “We’ve found a connection with two more of the victims,” he started when he saw them walk in. “Looks like you were right, Bright.”_

_Malcolm set down the box of fan mail on one of the newly cleared sections of table. Gil looked at the box and then up at Malcolm. “What’s this?”_

_“This,” Malcolm replied, removing the lid and looking at the box stuffed full of mail, “Is 20 years of fan mail.”_

_“Okay, seriously, what kind of sicko writes fan mail to a serial killer?” JT asked._

_“There are a number of different reasons, actually,” Bright answered. “The majority of these letters will be from women who are sexually aroused by his actions. It’s called hybristophilia. And in this case, that’s actually going to help us narrow our suspects down very quickly. Our killer is likely a white male and would have been 15 – 25 when The Surgeon made the news, which means he is now 35 – 45 years old. We can eliminate any letters written by women, which will likely be at least 80% of this box.”_

_“Dude, I will never understand the female mind,” JT muttered._

_Malcolm cleared off one end of the table and then upturned the box of letters in flood of papers. “We need to start a preliminary sort. Any letters from women can go back into the box. After our hybristophiliacs, the next largest fan base will be misogynists that are writing to tell him that the women he killed had it coming, that they appreciate the work he did. These are the type of men that will go on to become incel members. Some of these men are expressing an ideological view of male superiority, some are just impotent and angry. Either way, this hatred of women will be clearly expressed. Those letters can go back in the box, too. Our killer doesn’t hate women.”_

_“He's a super fan of a man who exclusively killed women,” Dani said, “how are you sure he doesn’t hate women?”_

_“If it was just about a hatred of women, he would have only chosen women as his victims now. But he's killed both men and women. This shows us that this is about Martin Whitly, not about his victims.” Malcolm was already flipping quickly through this letters, tossing the ones that were obviously written by women back into the box. Some of the letters were loose, others in envelopes. Many were written on very feminine stationary and others had hearts drawn in the margins. There were also some with very graphic drawings included._

_“Wow,” Gil said, eyebrows raised as he came across one such letter._

_“Yeah,” Malcolm smirked._

_They all jumped in and started sorting through the letters. Gil and Dani focused solely on looking for female authors to narrow down the pile, while JT and Malcolm started skimming through letters from men to weed out the misogynists._

_“I’m going to need a shower after this,” JT said after about 10 minutes. “This is disgusting.”_

_“There have to be over 1000 letters here,” Dani said. “I don’t get it.”_

_“I’m guessing he’s received more. These are just the ones he didn’t throw away,” Malcolm said absently. “These would be the ones that most feed his narcissism.”_

_In short order, they had the pile narrowed down to about 40 letters. At this point it would be all up to Bright to read through the remaining letters and find their suspect._

_“Kid, work your magic,” Gil said, “I'm going to go call the brass and update them on our progress. JT and Dani, would you mind making a breakfast run? It’s not even 10 in the morning but if I don’t get food and caffeine soon, I may just keel over.” He gave Dani a pointed look and flicked his eyes over to Malcolm. She nodded her understanding and made a mental note to pick up an Earl Grey tea and blueberry scone for Malcolm; one of the few things she'd ever seen him eat._

_Within 45 minutes, Malcolm called the team back in to the conference room. Gil was discouraged to see that, while Malcolm had been drinking the tea that Dani brought for him, the scone remained untouched. Dani and Gil shared a worried look, but Malcolm was already talking 100 miles a minute and gesturing expansively with one of the letters._

_“This is our guy. Francis Page. He wrote three letters to The Surgeon, and it’s clear that he idolizes and reveres him. Based on the letters alone, I would guess he likely has stalker tendencies and has probably tried to visit Dr. Whitly at the hospital. And no,” he answered as JT took a breath to ask a question, “the hospital would not have allowed a super-fan in to see him. But based on the level of devotion and allegiance evident in these letters, he wouldn’t have just moved on. He would have read everything he could get his hands on in regards to The Surgeon. He is likely active on online forums, even though he looks down on other fans for not being as devoted as he is. I believe that after such a long wait, after so many years of studying him and obsessing over him and feeling like he knows him in a way that no-one else ever has, that he’s decided to pay tribute, of a sort.”_

_“So this is, what?” Gil asked, “some sort of a gift for The Surgeon?”_

_“In a way, yes. It’s very much an offering, in the same way some cultures use human sacrifice as an offering to their gods. But it’s also a big neon sign shouting 'here I am, notice me!'. He knows that, eventually, the connection between his victims and The Surgeon's victims would be discovered, and he knows that Dr. Whitly would hear about it. He wants his attention. He wants everything, actually. He wants to be him, he wants to be loved by him, he wants to be better than him; he wants to be Dr. Whitly's whole world, in the same way that Dr. Whitly is his whole world.”_

_“Right,” JT said. “That’s not at all creepy or weird.”_

_Malcolm smirked at JT as Gil stood up and said “Okay, let’s find out everything we can on Francis Page. See if we can go pay him a visit and find out what he’s been up to.”_

_What he’d been up to, however, was not much. Francis Page had a juvenile record for pushing another foster kid out of a second story window in 1994 when he was 15, but following a two year stay in a juvenile detention facility, there wasn’t a lot of information. He had no work history, no vehicle registered in his name, and the only address listed for him was a PO box._

_“Well. That didn’t help,” JT stated as they reconvened in the conference room a short time later, Dani and JT sitting on one side of the table, Gil leaning against a filing cabinet, and Malcolm restlessly pacing in front of the whiteboard. “You sure this is our guy?”_

_Bright huffed out a breath. “I can’t be 100% certain, but yeah, I’m pretty confident it’s him.” _

_Gil ran a hand over his face. He was certainly feeling the strain of this case, and could really use a nap. With less than 6 hours of sleep in the last 48 hours, he was having trouble keeping his eyes open at this point. “JT, Powell, can you make a trip to the post office off Canal and see if they can give us any information on Page? Bright, I want you to go home and get some sleep, at least for a few hours. That is not a request,” he added, as Malcolm’s eyes widened and he opened him mouth to argue. “I’m going to catch a couple hours on the couch in my office. It’s not safe for either of us to be working on this little sleep, and you know it.”_

_Malcolm could see the sincerity in Gil's eyes and knew that he wouldn’t accept no as an answer. “Call me if you find anything. Anything at all,” Malcolm said to the three of them, hoping that they actually would. JT looked away, but Dani gave a quick nod. He flashed her a smile and turned to leave. Gil followed him out and stalled him with a hand on his shoulder, turning Malcolm to face him._

_“Are you okay, kid? The case has been dragging on, you went to see Dr. Whitly again, and I know that you’ve been sleeping even less than usual,” he said, moving his hand to the back of Malcolm’s neck as Malcolm looked away. “Look, I’m sorry about yelling at you earlier, I think this is all catching up with me too. But I’m worried about you. And if you’re going to keep working this case, which I know you will,” Gil forestalled the pending argument from Malcolm about being taken off the case, “then I need you to be at your best. We both need a few hours of sleep, and all that’s happening in the case right now is the lead at the post office.”_

_Malcolm observed the bags under Gil's eyes, the frown line creasing his forehead, and the tense set of his mouth. He only now noticed that Gil’s beard was leaning more toward salt than pepper, and that he was no longer the young officer that had rescued him from his father. Suddenly he wanted nothing more than to ease Gil's load, and if heading home and trying to sleep for a few hours was all Gil was asking of him, he would do it._

_“It’s fine Gil,” Malcolm smiled, “you’re probably right. We’ll both get some sleep and look at the case with fresh eyes in a few hours.” Some of the tension left Gil’s expression and Malcolm knew he'd made the right call. He gave him a wave and headed out to catch a cab home._

_He tried to sleep, he really did, but it was so far outside the realm possibility with all that was going on that it was just a waste of time. But he stayed in bed for a couple hours so he could at least tell Gil he had rested. It was just after 4 in the afternoon when he called Dani to check in. Turns out the post office had no additional information on Francis Page. They had a phone number on file, but wouldn’t hand it over without a warrant, and they didn’t have enough evidence to get one. She said that they were going to keep digging and see if they could come across anything else. _

_“What if we sent him an oversized package?” Malcolm asked._

_“Um, what?” Dani asked._

_“Well, the post office won’t give us his number, but I bet they’d be willing to go above and beyond and call to let him know if he had an oversized package waiting for him. Then we can just wait until someone comes to pick up the package. Oooh! A stakeout!” he said excitedly._

_“Calm down, boy wonder,” she laughed. “That’s actually a good idea. I’ll run it by Gil and get back to you.” She hung up without another word, leaving Malcolm standing in his living room staring at his phone._

_He took a quick shower and put on his perfectly pressed three piece suit. It was a battle armour of sorts for him, and after finally getting a break in the case after two weeks of working on overdrive, he definitely needed it today._

_He was pacing the floor of his apartment when he finally got a call from JT. “Gil liked your idea. Looks like you’re getting that stakeout you wanted and apparently I drew the short straw, so you’re riding with me. I’ll pick you up in about 15 minutes, be ready.” The call disconnected before Malcolm had a chance to say a word, leaving him wondering if that was part of NYPD detective training._

_He was climbing into the car before JT had fully stopped, his excitement tangible in the enclosed space. JT rolled his eyes as he pulled back into the street and headed towards the post office near Canal and Church, filling Malcolm in on the plan as he drove. “You were right,” JT said, ignoring Malcolm’s smirk, “they were willing to call Page and let him know he had an oversized package. Since the manned part of the post office closes at 6, they put it in a large shared box and put the key in Page's PO box. Gil and Dani are parking at one end of the street, you and I are parking at the other. Hopefully he shows tonight, because I do not want to spend the next few days trapped in my car with you.”_

_If this would have been a couple of months back, JT would have meant that. But he was warming to Bright’s presence on the team and Malcolm could tell it was said in the spirit of good-natured teasing. _

_They parked a few businesses down from the post office, and settled in for a long wait. They continued discussing the case at first and eventually settled into a comfortable silence. Which lasted all of about 15 minutes before Bright's leg was bouncing and he started spouting random facts about serial killers, stalkers, fan mail, etc. _

_JT actually jumped in on the conversation about the fan mail. “You know, even just flipping through all of those letters,” JT teased, “I saw at least 3 marriage proposals. Looks like you could end up with a new step-mommy one of these days.” He glanced over at Malcolm, ensuring he wasn’t taking things a step too far, but Malcolm was smiling at him._

_“It would be the wedding of the decade. Mother would be furious.” Malcolm joked._

_The conversation remained light and flowed easily the rest of the evening. Gil called to check in shortly after 10, triple checking that Malcolm was certain that Francis Page was their guy. “Because otherwise we’re wasting a lot of police resources sitting here watching a post office.”_

_“I’m like, 90% certain.” Malcolm replied. Gil huffed out a breath, obviously unsure about whether or not they ought to continue on the stakeout. He trusted Bright, maybe more than he should, but having all four of them waiting outside a post office all night on the off chance that a man, who may or may not be a serial killer, shows up? He wasn’t sure if it was a good idea to put all their eggs in this one basket._

_“Look Gil, I’m confident that I’m right about him. And I’m willing to bet he shows up for this package tonight. He’s the type that would buy murder memorabilia online, and he wouldn’t have the patience to wait long after the phone call from the post office to come pick it up. I’m betting he’s in the middle of something, maybe shift work or if he’s with another victim, but he’ll be here to collect his package tonight.”_

_JT shot him a glare at the flippant mention of another possible victim, but knew that Malcolm was just being realistic. It was a very real possibility that their killer already had another victim hidden away somewhere, which made this stakeout all the more important. _

_“Okay, kid, we’ll stick with it. Keep us posted if you see anything.” And with that, Gil hung up._

_“JT? Can I ask you a question?” Malcolm asked seriously, turning to face him, “I have to know. When you take the detectives exam, is one of the requirements that you hang up on all phone conversations without saying goodbye?”_

_They shared a laugh and settled back in. Malcolm seemed more relaxed and JT figured that Gil’s faith in his profile must have calmed his nerves a bit. The kid really did just want to help._

_Traffic in and out of the post office dwindled as the night went on, and by midnight when a fierce thunderstorm rolled in, it was completely deserted. Discussions in both cars came to a halt as the rain hammered down, echoing in the small spaces, and the crashing thunder made conversation nearly impossible. The storm lasted almost two hours, the humidity fogging up the glass, compelling them to crack open the windows, which left Malcolm shivering. This stakeout wasn’t turning out to be nearly as fun as Malcolm had hoped. Eventually, the storm passed, but the streets remained empty._

_It was almost 3 in the morning when they saw a man enter the post office, and Dani called JT immediately. From where she and Gil were parked, she could use her binoculars to see inside. “It’s our guy,” she said, and abruptly hung up. A few seconds later he exited carrying the large box and turning to walk in the direction where Gil and Dani were parked, across the street and down the road. _

_Dani and Gil exited their car and started crossing the street towards their suspect as he continued down the sidewalk, still too far away to get a good look at him. When the suspect looked up and saw the two detectives heading towards him, he dropped the box and took off in the other direction, running across the street, and down the cross street midway down the road. As soon as Malcolm saw the suspect drop the box, he was out of the car and chasing on foot, JT yelling “Dammit Bright!” behind him as he left the car to follow him. _

_Meanwhile, Dani and Gil had run back to their car to start the pursuit. As their suspect cut through some narrow walkways, Dani and Gil were forced to circle the block at a few different spots, but Malcolm kept hot on his heels and JT wasn’t far behind. The chase zig-zagged south through the streets, eventually ending up on Jay street, where Gil and Dani parked the car and joined the chase on foot, splintering off from JT and Malcolm, trying to box their suspect in. Malcolm was almost a block ahead of JT at this point, all those years of running from school yard bullies finally paying off. He followed the suspect into Staple Street, continuing full tilt and not even noticing the shadow in the doorway until it came flying out at him. The suspect wrapped one arm around Malcolm's middle, trapping his left arm next to his body, and used his other hand to press a rag to Malcolm’s face. _

_Malcolm recognized the scent of chloroform immediately and threw his entire weight back, trying to throw off his attacker, but he was soon losing the battle to stay conscious and the suspect was already dragging him towards a car parked a few yards away. Malcolm was berating himself for running blindly into the alley when he vaguely heard footsteps from the end of the street moving rapidly forward. His attacker spun them both around, dropping the arm that was wrapped around his middle and pulling a gun from his waistband. Malcolm was already sagging down towards the ground, the only thing keeping him upright was the hand holding the cloth to his face, and the last thing he saw was the flash of the gun followed by JT's body hitting the ground. He didn’t even feel the suspect toss him unceremoniously into the trunk of the car._


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looks like we're going to go with two chapters again today!
> 
> Mostly, I'd just like to get this up before the next episode comes on and provides more information that I would end up trying to include in this story.
> 
> Once again, thank you all for your comments and support, you are a lovely bunch of human beings!

A uniformed officer walked into the conference room holding a file folder, just as Gil finished filling in Sanders and Bennett on the facts of the case and Malcolm’s abduction. “Lieutenant Arroyo,” he said respectfully, “I have the preliminary work up on Jason Martins, owner of the car that was used to abduct Mr. Bright.” He passed the folder over with a nod and left with a sincere thank you from Gil.

Gil started to read out the results of the search. “Jason Martins, 39, security guard. Currently employed…” he trailed off, sitting up straight, eyebrows furrowed.

“What is it?” Dani said, looking up from the laptop at Gil's abrupt change in bearing.

“He works at Claremont Psychiatric Hospital. That cannot be a coincidence,” Gil mused. Dani leaned over to look at the file, seeing the photo paper-clipped to the top left side of the papers. She recognized him immediately, but it took a moment for her to place him.

“He was at the hospital yesterday when Bright and I went to see his dad,” she said, trading concerned looks with Gil.

“Right. Let’s see what else we have on him,” Gil said, skimming through the file. “looks like he’s been a security guard for years, but has bounced around at a number of facilities. Including the NYPD case storage facility, a little over 10 years ago. Bright said our guy is a fan and would have gathered all the information he could have about Dr. Whitly. I think this is our guy. He’s been using his job as a security guard to gain access to information on The Surgeon.”

“That’s why there’s practically no information on Francis Page. He’s been living under an assumed identity,” Dani continued Gil's train of thought. “So we need to find out everything we can about Jason Martins. And hopefully that will tell us where he took Bright.”

“Have you had much luck with the traffic cams?” Sanders asked.

“Yes and no,” Dani replied. “As near as I can tell, he was heading for the I-87. I think he left the city with him.”

Gil's dropped his head in his hands and let out a string of curses under his breath. The chances of getting Bright back alive were lessening every minute, and knowing that the killer could maybe even be out of state already terrified him.

Gil slowly stood, head still downcast, leaning his weight on the table like he no longer had the strength to hold himself upright. “Alright. Dani, work with Sanders and Bennett to find out every detail of Jason Martins' life. I want to know where he lives, where he spends his free time, what sites he visits online. I want to know what goddamn cereal he eats for breakfast!” He had started out quietly but the anger built as he spoke, ending the statement with a shout. The other three detectives remained quiet, giving Gil a moment to collect himself.

He closed his eyes and murmured and apology before continuing “I am going to go have a very unpleasant conversation with Jessica Whitly.”

**********

Malcolm had been alone in the room for nearly an hour. His feet and legs were starting to ache and because of the tape around his ankles, he wasn’t able to adjust his weight to relieve the pressure. The muscles across his shoulders and down his arms felt like they were on fire, but every movement he made to stretch or roll his shoulders threatened to throw him off balance. Part of him was starting to look forward to the numbness in his hands spreading up to his shoulders, icing the fire that was burning his muscles.

The rope around his neck was scratching at his sensitive skin, the itch serving as a constant reminder that one wrong move, one lapse of concentration, and he would end up like the other six victims, another body on Edrisa's autopsy table.

He reviewed in his mind all of the information he had about Francis Page, and everything he could piece together now that he knew that Francis was working at Claremont. Unfortunately, it mostly just led to the conclusion that he was screwed. There were a distressing number of reasons that Francis would want to hurt and then kill him.

Of course, Malcolm would try his best to talk Francis down. Give him what he wanted, what he needed. Try to find a way to have Francis let him go, or at the very least, to let him down. He was realistic, though, that his best chance of getting out alive was to stall him until Gil and the team could find him. He knew with every fibre of his being that Gil was looking for him right now. And he was praying that JT was still there to help. The thought that JT might have died in that alley was weighing on him more than anything else. In the last couple months, he had finally found a place he belonged. Gil, Dani, JT, even Edrisa, they had become more than colleagues or friends, they had become his own little family. And he wasn’t sure that he could handle losing one of them.

He was startled out of his spiraling thoughts of JT bleeding out in a dark alley by the muted sound of a lock opening. Francis let himself back into the room, pausing to latch and lock the door behind him, and slip the key back into his pocket. He was carrying a worn leather satchel over his shoulder, which he placed on the small console table that was pushed against the wall in front of Malcolm. The table was the only piece of furniture in the room, outside of the folding chair Malcolm was standing on.

Francis ran his hands lovingly over the soft, supple leather, inhaling the scent with closed eyes. He pulled back the flap and started removing the contents of the bag, setting them methodically in order on the table. He started with what was clearly his prized possession, a small metal case that opened like a book to reveal three shining scalpels. He ran his fingers down the handle of each one, caressing them. After that, he pulled out a journal, an elegant pen, a roll of tape and an old Polaroid camera, all of which he meticulously lined up next to the scalpels. The entire time between when he walked in and when he finished unpacking his bag of goodies, he didn’t even acknowledge Malcolm’s presence in the room, he was so absorbed in the ritual he was performing.

Once he had everything arranged to his satisfaction, he finally turned to Malcolm. “Do you recognize them?” he asked almost excitedly, obviously very proud of his treasures.

Malcolm looked over the items on the table closely. There was a niggling in the back of his mind, but the memory, as was so often the case, was just out of reach.

Francis looked disappointed for a fraction of a second, but then took on a haughty look of superiority. “It's better that I got them. You never would have appreciated them,” he said. He continued to stare at Malcolm, anger washing over his features as he shouted “you never appreciated him!”

Francis turned back to the table and Malcolm watched the tension drain from his shoulders as he picked up the scalpel case. A moment later he turned to face Malcolm, holding the case up reverently. “These were his. Shortly after the media tried to crucify Dr. Whitly, your mother had a hard time retaining staff. Do you remember that? The parade of nannies and cooks and maids that refused to stay? I watched your house when I could, not as often as I would have liked, loitering isn’t exactly allowed in those upper crust areas. But I watched. And one night, I followed one of the maids from your house, and offered her money if she could get me some souvenirs. Since she was planning on quitting anyways, she was happy to make some extra money,” he sneered.

Malcolm was fascinated as he watched the display of emotions that flickered across Francis’s face as he recounted his story. Adoration, longing, lust, anger, disdain. If his neck wasn’t literally on the line at the moment, he would have enjoyed analyzing Francis as a case study to further his understanding of deviant personalities.

“She brought me the scalpels and the bag. Brilliant choices, really. They’re beautiful,” he said, eyes drinking in the exquisitely maintained scalpels. He smiled up at Malcolm, “I was going to kill her slowly, as punishment for betraying Dr. Whitly, but I made it fast, after she brought me such thoughtful choices. She was my first.”

He shrugged sheepishly as he continued “I’m ashamed to say I would have been a disappointment to Dr. Whitly back then, but everyone has to start somewhere, I suppose.” His eyes turned cool as he added “and you know all about being a disappointment to Dr. Whitly, don’t you Malcolm?”

“My father would appreciate the loyalty you’ve shown…” Malcolm started but was interrupted as Francis screamed “you don’t deserve to call him that!”

He was nearly purple in the face, he screamed so loudly, a vein on the right side of his forehead throbbing violently. Malcolm instinctively pulled back, causing the chair to start folding in on itself. The noose around his neck tightened as his entire weight was briefly supported by the rope. His eyes widened as he realized his mistake and struggled to regain his footing without knocking the chair over completely. Once he was standing again, he took a gasping breath as the rope loosened enough to allow airflow, but it was still uncomfortably tight.

Francis stood still and watched with interest as Malcolm struggled, his anger temporarily forgotten.

When Malcolm had righted himself, Francis turned back to the table and placed the scalpels back in their place, adjusting everything just so, tiny movements to align everything perfectly.

“Okay Malcolm,” he said finally, “let’s talk.”

**********

Gil had phoned ahead to find out where Jessica was, and to let her know he was on her way. She met him at the door herself, worry etched on her face. “What could he have done that’s so bad it warrants a visit from Lieutenant Arroyo?” she asked, holding the door open for him.

Gil entered the foyer and waited while she closed the door, but stopped her with a hand on her forearm as she tried to lead the way into sitting room.

“Jessica,” he started “Malcolm’s been abducted.”

Jessica’s face dropped and her hands clasped together tightly at her sternum. For a moment, she forgot how to breathe, and Gil reached out an unsure hand to steady her should she need it. “What do you mean?” she finally asked. “Abducted by whom?”

Gil hesitated, unsure of just how much he should let Jessica know. She read the reluctance on his face, and her fear abruptly morphed into anger. “He is my son,” she growled, “you tell me who has him, Gil.”

“We’re working the current serial killer case,” Gil said quietly.

“Oh my God,” Jessica let out in a shaky exhale.

Gil placed a hand on her back and led her into the dinning room. He sat her at the head of the table and then went over to the bar to pour her a gin. He'd spent enough time with Jessica during crisis situations to know exactly what she would need. He brought the crystal glass back to her and joined her at the table.

“Jessica, we are doing everything we can to find him. I will do whatever it takes to bring him home.” He said it so earnestly that Jessica couldn’t help but believe him. As much as she disapproved of Malcolm’s working relationship with Gil, she knew that he was like a father to Malcolm – everything Martin should have been for him but wasn’t. And she knew it wasn’t lip-service when Gil promised to find him.

“Tell me what happened. And then tell me who I need to call to get you the resources you need to find him,” she stated firmly. Jessica Whitly on a mission was a formidable force, and Gil was glad to have her on his side. He gave her a condensed version of the events leading to Malcolm’s abduction, and she became more focused and intense as he went on.

“Of course,” she spat, “this would have something to do with Martin. Even behind bars he continues to destroy Malcolm.” She slammed her glass down on the table, and brusquely rose from the table, heading to the front door with only a quick stop to grab her purse and coat along the way. Gil was caught entirely off guard and stumbled out of his chair to hurry along behind her.

“Where are you going?”

“We. We are going to go talk to Martin to see if he knows anything that he had been holding back.”

He shook his head but followed her out the door. At this point, anything was worth a shot.

**********

Francis picked up the bulky old Polaroid camera and snapped a picture of Malcolm. “For my photo album,” he explained. “I like to have a record of our time together. I have one of you in the trunk when I knocked you out the second time. I wanted to get a picture of you sitting on the chair with the noose around you neck, but, like I said, you woke up sooner than I expected and I wasn’t quite ready.” He stood in front of Malcolm, cradling the camera in one arm and shaking the picture with his other hand. As he turned to put the camera down, he muttered “now the set will be incomplete.”

Malcolm noticed he seemed genuinely disappointed about not having his full set of photos. He realized that, while his initial profile was correct, there seemed to be a lot more to Francis Page than he was anticipating. And that was going to make it extremely difficult to ensure he didn’t say the wrong thing and accidentally set him off.

“Oh well,” Page continued, “we'll just have to make do from this point on.” He taped the photo into the journal, then picked up both the journal and pen and then turned to face Malcolm. “I have so many questions for you, I don’t even know where to start!” he exclaimed. He looked like a kid that was going to see Santa about his Christmas wish list. Malcolm was worried that the abrupt mood-swings were going to give him whiplash. He was having trouble keeping up. Though that could also be due to the slightly restricted airflow, he thought to himself, trying his best to stay focused.

“I want to know everything about Dr. Whitly. I’ve studied him my entire adult life, but you knew him before he was The Surgeon. You spent every day with him. So let’s start with what he was like as a father. Did he take you to the park? Did you play catch? Would he tuck you in at night and read you bedtime stories? Did you feel safe when he held you in his arms? I want all of your memories of him.”

Malcolm was so caught of guard by this line of questioning that he just stood there blinking at Francis for a few seconds. Francis stood, pen at the ready, eagerly awaiting Malcolm’s answer.

“He, uh, he was the perfect father.” Malcolm was still a little thrown, but quickly realized that as long as he was answering Page’s questions, then the scalpels would remain in their case. So if he had to share every memory he had of his father, he would. “There was a small park not far from the house, just a corner of grass, really. We would go there and toss a football back and forth. He had such a warm smile. It made you feel like you had done something amazing any time he smiled at you. He was always laughing. He had such a deep, hearty laugh, that you couldn’t help but laugh along with him.”

Francis beamed as Malcolm shared his memories. He took notes and encouraged him to continue with a smile or a nod as he spoke. Malcolm was aware he had a captive audience, and he fully intended to take advantage of it. And so he spent the next few hours sharing memories of his father, talking until his voice rasped and his throat ached.


	6. Chapter 6

Martin knew that a visitor was coming, since the guards were locking him into his restraints, but he was expecting it to be Malcolm, returning to ask for more information about this serial killer that was infatuated with him. He was shocked, therefore, when Jessica glided in, followed closely by Detective Arroyo. He stood dumbfounded, jaw slack, for a moment, until he regained his composure and snapped his mouth shut. He was about to make a smart ass comment, when he noticed the panic on Jessica’s face and the tension in Gil's frame.

“What happened?”

“Malcolm was kidnapped by a serial killer that apparently has a crush on you,” Jessica stated.

Martin looked back and forth between Jessica and Gil, looking for any sign of this being one of Jessica's over-exaggerations, finding none.

The honest to God concern on Martin's face caused Gil to cock his head and raise a brow in surprise. He had truly believed Martin was incapable of love but he was going to have to reevaluate that notion. Just not today. Today he had more important things to focus on.

“No. No no no no no. That’s not right.”

“Dr. Whitly, if you have any information you were withholding about a fan you had named Francis Page, or a security guard here named Jason Martins, you need to let us know now.” Gil stated.

“A guard here?” Martin asked. “What about a guard here?”

“We believe that Francis Page is working here under the false or assumed identity of Jason Martins. Have you had contact with him?” He pulled out a copy of the photo they had on file, holding it out for Martin to see. Martin shuffled forward as close as he could to the red line, glaring daggers at the photo.

“I think I’ve seen him walk by, but I’ve never spoken to him. He’s never spoken to me! If this about me, why would he take Malcolm?!”

Martin was rapidly losing his composure. His guard moved forward, ready to intervene if necessary.

“I swear on all that is holy, Martin,” Jessica intervened, “if there is anything you aren’t telling us that could help us find Malcolm, I will ensure you spend the rest of your days in a 6 by 6 windowless cell without a single visitor to feed your massive ego.”

Jessica’s rant snapped Martin back to himself. He inhaled slowly, then blew it out. Anger wasn’t going save his boy. He could be angry later. And would certainly get revenge later. But right now, he needed to work with the last person he ever thought he would team up with – the man who stole his role as father to Malcolm.

“I knew there was someone in the prison who was… friendly towards me. Small gifts would show up in my cell. I’d have longer phone time than I was supposed to have. Small things like that. But I never had reason to believe that someone would hurt Malcolm to get to me.”

Gil swept his eyes back and forth over Martin’s face, and concluded that Martin was, for once, being truthful. “In that case, I need to get back to the precinct. Malcolm believed that Francis was obsessed with you, so if you can think of anywhere that he may have taken Malcolm, somewhere that might have been important to you, you let me know. Okay?” He faced Jessica, silently asking if she was alright to be left alone and, following a small nod, turned and left the cell.

Martin watched as Jessica folded in on herself, looking lost and afraid in a way he never thought he would see in the powerhouse that had been his wife. She had lost her veneer of haughty social superiority and looked so very delicate and vulnerable. Martin ignored his incredibly mixed feelings about this - that vulnerability stirred something inside him that hadn’t been accessed in 20 years - and opted to focus on Malcolm’s situation instead.

“What do we do now?” he softly asked, but Jessica still startled, lost as she was in her thoughts. She looked at him with tear-filled eyes and shook her head. Even when Martin had been arrested and her life turned into pure chaos, she had never felt this helpless. Her son was at the mercy of a madman and, even with all of her wealth and influence, there wasn’t a damn thing she could do to get him back.

“I will have a chat with the Governor and ensure that Lieutenant Arroyo has all of the manpower he needs to find our son,” Jessica stood tall, visibly shaking off her fear, pulling her mask back on and once again becoming the formidable and commanding woman that Martin had known all those years ago. He smiled sadly as she continued, “you will sit here and think about any interactions you may have unknowingly had with the man who has Malcolm. Call if you remember anything pertinent.”

Martin took a moment to admire her as she walked away. She was still stunning, obviously, but more than that, she still had that fire burning bright inside her. He was so proud of her.

Once she was out of sight, he turned to the guard to free him from his handcuffs, then made his way to his desk to start brainstorming anything that might help pinpoint Malcolm’s location, even though he wasn’t confident that he would be able to provide much assistance on that front. His son would be found, alive and well. He had to believe that. But unfortunately, he would mostly be leaving that in the hands of the NYPD.

He could, however, start the wheels in motion to ensure a very slow and very painful death for one Francis Page once he was found.

**********

It was a peculiar mix of terror and boredom. Malcolm knew that if he lost his balance or fell asleep, he would die. And he also knew that all too soon, Francis would be introducing the scalpels to their conversations. But in the meantime, he spent his time recounting childhood memories, or standing silently while Francis left him alone in the room for what felt like hours at a time. He made minor adjustments to his limbs as often as he could, trying to relieve pressure and keep the blood flowing, but his entire body was aching. He had studied stress positions at Quantico, but never thought he'd be experiencing something similar. It was far worse than it sounded in the books.

His body was also telling him that it was getting late. He was tired. Aside from his chloroform induced naps, which he was oddly thankful for at this point, he hadn’t slept in nearly 72 hours. He was used to not sleeping, but there would come a point where his body would no longer give him a choice. That drug induced sleep might be what saves his life, he mused. He knows that eventually he will start hallucinating or taking micro-naps, either of which could lead to him falling off the chair. He's also aware that the other victims had all been sliced with a scalpel a varying number of times. The least was 10. The most was 78. Malcolm thought that the saying 'death by a thousand cuts' never seemed more menacing.

Francis re-entered the room as Malcolm was contemplating his chances of staying awake and lucid long enough for Gil to find him. He felt terrible for worrying Gil like this. He knew that the Lieutenant would be moving heaven and earth right now to find him, and that he wouldn’t stop until they either rescued him or his body was discovered. It was going to be a long few days for Gil, and Malcolm couldn’t help but feel responsible for being such a burden on the man. Again. Malcolm was sure that all of those white hairs were because of him. Gil had been looking out for him since his father’s arrest; he was there when MalcoIm hadn’t spoken for months after his father was taken away, he was there when his teenage hormones mixed with the generalized depression and anxiety that he suffered from nearly proved fatal, he was there with him every step of the trial-and-error process of finding the right doses for his medications, he drove him to Virginia to get him set up when he enrolled at Quantico. Gil had saved him so many times, and it made his heart ache to think how devastated Gil would be if he couldn’t save him this time.

Francis was standing in front of Malcolm, watching silently as Malcolm struggled with his feelings. Finally he broke the silence. “It’s nearly 10:00. You have until midnight to tell me more about what Dr. Whitly was like as a father, and then we’ll take a break for the night. Tomorrow I will start with the more difficult questions. And I will begin bleeding you.” Malcolm’s eyes widened in fear and surprise. He hadn’t expected a warning of what was going to happen. It actually made things worse. Francis ignored Malcolm’s surprise and continued, “apparently the longest anyone has ever stayed awake is 11 days. You won’t last that long, obviously. But I’ll leave you as you are for the first 24 hours. Then I’ll start cutting you. The blood loss will speed things along nicely. Now. Where were we?”

Malcolm’s breath caught in his throat. His profile of Francis Page has been correct, but it had also been woefully incomplete. He was a psychopath for sure. And Malcolm was noticing signs of OCD as well. Malcolm was beginning to think he may also be a sadist, if the gleam in Francis's eye when he was talking about cutting him was anything to go by.

He noticed that Page was getting impatient, waiting for Malcolm to continue, pen at the ready. “He, um, he made the world’s best blueberry pancakes. We had a cook, but on Sunday mornings, he would take over the kitchen and make stacks and stacks of blueberry pancakes. And we would sit around the table in the kitchen, not the formal table in the dining room where we usually ate, and we would eat pancakes until we felt like we were going to burst. Ainsley would be sitting on Mother’s lap, so she could cut the pancakes into bite sized pieces for her. And I would sit next to fath… Dr. Whitly” Malcolm corrected himself when he noticed the gleam of hatred in Francis's eyes whenever Malcolm called him 'dad' or 'father', “I’d sit next to Dr. Whitley, happy to just be in his orbit.”

Much to his surprise, Malcolm teared up, the memory coming unbidden, sideswiping him. He had forgotten about those Sunday mornings filled with laughter and joy, the four of them every bit the perfect, storybook family. All of a sudden he was grieving once more for the childhood that had been shattered, grieving the loss of what their lives could have been if Martin hadn’t made the choices he made. He attempted to blink back the tears, but a few escaped and slip down his face. He refused to look at Page, whom, he was sure, was enjoying this. He could hear the scratching of the pen on the journal, and was strangely embarrassed by his display of emotions. He quickly regained his composure and eventually looked down at Francis to find him smirking back up at him.

“I guess we’ll call it a night a little bit early. That’s fine. I have some bodies that need disposing of anyways.” Concern rolled off of Malcolm like a wave, and Francis answered as he walked away, “I killed all of the other victims at home. But I had to make this special for Dr. Whitly. The family who lives here had to be removed. It’s okay though, because they built this house on sacred ground. They deserved to die.”

The last of this was said as he closed the door behind him. Once again Malcolm heard the lock click and was left alone with his thoughts.

**********

As of 2:00 in the afternoon, nearly the entire NYPD was working on the serial killer case. Some of them wanted to help; Malcolm Bright certainly wasn’t popular with the cops at the precinct, but many still felt, like Detective Sanders, that an attack on a consultant was as good as an attack on one of their own. More pressingly, the Mayor was breathing down their necks to find Francis Page, aka Jason Martins, ASAP. An active serial killer sparking nationwide headlines was bad for business. Therefore, overtime was approved in hopes that more resources would equal a quicker capture. Gil could sense Jessica’s influence in there somewhere, but was too grateful for the help to be annoyed at the meddling of civilians in police business.

By 10:00 that evening, they were at an impasse and running on empty. Bennett had already left for the night, but Gil, Dani and Sanders had gathered around the conference table once again to brief one another on their progress. Dani was in the middle of explaining her attempt to follow the car via traffic cams, but stopped mid-sentence as JT slowly made his way into the room, moving tenderly with one arm in a sling.

Gil’s surprised “what the hell are you doing here?” was mixed with the bustle of Sanders jumping to his feet and pulling a chair out for JT to sit in. He grunted a thank you as he sat down, leaning back and letting out a laboured breath. He looked ashen and exhausted and was obviously in a considerable amount of pain, but Gil understood the need to be there. To do something, anything, to help. But JT was his responsibility too, and he needed rest and should really be in the hospital.

“What the hell, JT?” Dani beat Gil to the punch. “There is no way the hospital released you. You look terrible.”

“Thanks, Dani, it’s nice to see you, too.” He responded sarcastically, but the pinched look on his face took some of the sting out of his words. “Where are we at with finding Bright?”

“JT,” Gil sighed, “Honestly, we’re a little stuck. I was about to suggest we all head home for a few hours. We’ll be no good to Bright if we’re all falling over from exhaustion.” He looked to Sanders and Dani as well, to make sure they knew he was talking to them too. “How about I catch you up on what we’ve got while I drive you home?”

JT started to protest, but Dani interrupted “He’s right, we all need some rest. We’ve asked the FBI for help with tracking the car on traffic cameras. They have some fancy algorithm running to see if they can find the plates on any of the footage they have, but it’s going to take time. And we don’t really have any other leads to follow up on right now.” Sanders was nodding his agreement with her statement, leading JT to believe that this was all true, and not just some plot to send him home.

“Fine. But I’m coming back first thing in the morning.”

They all got tiredly to their feet and headed out to the parking lot together, Dani and Sanders wishing Gil and JT a good night and heading their separate ways. True to his word, Gil updated JT on everything they knew as he drove. Fortunately, he found a parking spot quite close to JT's place and helped him up to his apartment, despite his protests. Gil led them directly into the kitchen and gestured for JT to sit at the antique rosewood table while he filled a large glass of water.

“Meds.” Gil demanded as he passed over the glass of water.

JT rolled his eyes. Gil had missed his calling as a father; the man was eternally paternal. JT pulled two bottles of pills from the jacket he had been carrying. Painkillers and antibiotics, as per usual. He was overdue for the painkiller and, now that he was home and close to his bed, more than ready to take it.

“How are you JT?” Gil asked, “Really.”

“Honestly? It hurts like a bitch.”

“You know you don’t have to come back right away, right? No one is going to judge you for taking the time away to heal.”

“It’s not that,” he said, rubbing a hand over his face. “This is my fault. I shouldn’t have let Bright get so far ahead of me. He ran right into an ambush and I should have been there to have his back.”

Gil's heart broke a little at the ashamed look on JTs face. He reached over and put his hand on JT's good arm, looking him intently in the eye. “This is not your fault. Do you understand me? This is all on Francis Page. And when we get Bright back, I’ll be having a very loud conversation with him about not running headlong into danger all the time.”

JT huffed out a small laugh at that. It was true that Bright didn't seem to have any sense of self preservation. The kid needed to learn to trust the team to be there for him, because they would. JT just wanted to make sure he had the chance to prove it to him.

Gil left shortly thereafter, promising to pick JT up on his way to the precinct in the morning. JT had just enough time to get himself ready for bed and awkwardly settle himself on propped pillows before the pain medication kicked in and he was lost to dreams of dark alleys, cracking gunshots, and a never-ending search for a friend he couldn’t find.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's where some of those warnings come into effect. I don't think anything is excessively graphic, but just in case that's an issue for you, consider yourself warned.

Malcolm was swaying slightly when Francis returned the following morning. He didn’t usually have trouble keeping himself awake for days at a time, but he normally had casework to keep him occupied and to burn off his manic energy. Standing still in an empty room was surprisingly exhausting.

Francis came in bright-eyed and well rested, greeting Malcolm with a chipper “good morning!” as he walked to the little table of supplies.

He fingered each of the scalpels in turn, and eventually settled on the center one to pull out. He turned it slowly in his hand, the dim overhead light glinting off of the polished metal. Malcolm took a deep breath, mentally preparing for what was about to happen, but couldn’t stop his heart from kicking into overdrive. He’d had all night to envision just what Francis was about to do, having seen the end result of what he'd done to the previous victims.

All of the victims had been found with lacerations of varying depth and length on various areas of the body. At first Malcolm had assumed that the killer was trying to inflict pain (and he still knew that was correct), but now he knew that the primary purpose was to induce gradual blood loss, causing increased fatigue in the victims, speeding their eventual collapse. And he was about to experience it firsthand.

Francis casually circled Malcolm, a butcher appraising a cut of meat. “Tell me Malcolm, why exactly did you change your last name?”

Malcolm was trying his best to track his movements, but lost sight of him every time he went behind his back, wobbling on the chair as he tried to turn his head to see. He was bracing for the cut, the anticipation of it speeding his breathing, leaving his blood pounding in his ears. “You know why,” he breathed out.

“I’d like you to tell me.”

He stopped in front of Malcolm, eyeing him from collar to ankle. He hummed quietly, then turned and replaced the scalpel in the case (Malcolm let out a sigh of relief), then turned and left the room without a word.

Malcolm's head was spinning. Intellectually, he knew that Page was intentionally keeping him off-balance, literally and figuratively. But it didn’t help to calm the anxiety.

Less than 15 minutes later, Page was back, this time brandishing a pair of trauma shears. Malcolm supposed he ought to have guessed. It was going to be hard to slice him open while he was still fully dressed. He spared a moment to mourn for his beautifully tailored suit as Page began cutting from the collar of his shirt, down his arm, through both shirt and jacket. He had to leave a strip of the fabric at the wrists where duct tape was attached to cloth. He continued methodically, slicing the shirt, waistcoat and jacket until Malcolm was bare-chested, only ragged pieces of cloth left around the duct tape at his wrists. Francis gathered the scraps of his suit and dumped them unceremoniously in the corner of the room.

Then he moved on to Malcolm’s pants. Malcolm was embarrassed and relieved in equal measure. He had lost the battle against his bladder some time during the night, and his pants were cold and wet against his legs. The scissors were cool against his skin as they slid down his leg. Again, Francis cut around the fabric at the duct tape around his ankles, and soon his legs were bared as well. 

“Okay. We’re going to remove your shoes now. This’ll be tricky!” He smiled up at Malcolm. “But I’m going to want to slice your feet so that it hurts for you to stand. So. You’re going to have to sort of lean to the side here while I get this one off…” Malcolm did his best to lean to the right while Francis removed his left shoe and sock, and then to the left while he removed the right, somehow managing to keep his balance and also not panic about the thought of the scalpel slicing through the soles of his feet.

Malcolm was left in just his boxer briefs. For years now, his suit had been a protective layer between him and the world, a kind of armour. He discovered long ago that if he was immaculately dressed and perfectly put together on the outside, people were less likely to notice just how damaged he was on the inside. Standing here now, nearly naked, left him feeling vulnerable in a way that he wasn’t accustomed to.

But even while feeling exposed, he continued to build on his profile, hoping that understanding who Francis Page was, what motivated him, would help him to talk Page down, convince him to release him.

Watching Page’s reactions as he cut off the suit, slowly stripping Malcolm down, revealed that there was no sexual component to his actions, and Malcolm was thankful for that small mercy. He checked for dilated pupils, quickened breathing, any sign of interest below the belt. There was none.

“Better,” Francis said. He took the scissors over to the table, aligning them perfectly with the rest of his items. He opened the journal, flipping it to the page he'd left off on, but left the book on the table. Then he performed his ritual with the scalpels, pulling out the one on the left of the case.

“Now. Where were we?”

He began circling Malcolm again, but without his clothing to act as a barrier, it felt far more menacing. Malcolm was expecting the question when it came, but was still unsure of what answer would displease Page the least.

“Why did you change you last name, Mr. Bright?” He said 'Mr. Bright' scathingly, making it abundantly clear that he found the name abhorrent. Malcolm waited until Francis was in front of him before replying, deciding to take the plunge and say what he assumed Francis was waiting to hear, rather than dragging it out.

“To distance myself from my father.”

The first cut came on his thigh. Vertical, about 4 inches long, not so deep that it would cause excessive bleeding, but enough that it would need stitches to close properly. The scalpel was so sharp that Francis had already pulled back and was admiring his work before the pain of it even registered with Malcolm.

Francis's eye flicked up to Malcolm's face as he let out a gasp. His body instinctively struggled to move away from the source of the pain, but he quickly stilled himself as the roped chafed against his neck and pulled tight around his throat. Throughout it all, Francis kept an unblinking gaze on Malcolm’s face.

And there it is, Malcolm thought as he looked down at Page. The dilated pupils and accelerated breathing. Francis definitely got off on causing pain, so this wasn’t entirely about his father. Not that it really mattered right now. Either way he was going to be sliced open and strangled to death.

“You don’t deserve to call him your father. You are a disappointment, Malcolm.” Francis was languidly circling again, but his voice was barely restrained fury.

“If I didn’t deserve him as a father, I didn’t deserve his last name, right? Isn’t it a good thing I changed my name?”

The cut to the meaty flesh at the base of his thumb wasn’t as deep but stung even more, and he let out a faint cry at the pain. It took him by surprise. He thought that the numbness in his hands would have lessened the sting, but he felt the scalpel as it dug inside, felt the warm blood trickle down his hand, pooling momentarily at his fingertips before gravity pulled it down, landing with a muted ting on the chair below.

Francis moved in front of him and continued to watch his reactions. Once Malcolm had stilled and caught his breath, Francis turned back to the table, trading the scalpel for the pen and writing extensively in the journal. He took a short break in order to take a few pictures – close ups of both cuts and a full view of Malcolm from the front. He returned to the journal, taping the photos in and continuing writing around them. From where he was standing, Malcolm couldn’t make out what Francis was writing, but he'd be willing to bet he was cataloging every word they spoke and every cut he made – where on the body it was, approximate depth and length, the scalpel used, the reaction it garnered.

When he finished writing, he picked up the used scalpel and left the room. Malcolm surmised he was going to clean it. He clearly adored the scalpels and would feel the compulsive need to keep them gleaming; they were serving as a stand in for the man he worshiped and he would show the appropriate level of reverence and care in maintaining them.

When he came back into the room an hour later, the scalpel had indeed been cleaned, and was replaced in the case. This time he picked up the pen and journal again and Malcolm nearly sagged with relief. His hand still stung, although he was unable to see if it was bleeding much. His thigh, however was still weeping blood, warm and sticky down his leg, and the anticipation of the next cut was terrible.

“Malcolm, I’d like you to tell me about your visits with Dr. Whitly while he was in prison. You spent a decade as nearly his only visitor. I want to know everything you ever discussed while you were with him. We will take breaks every couple of hours so I can cut you, but so long as you keep talking, I’ll keep the cuts relatively shallow. If you stop recounting your visits with him, they will be much deeper.” He tilted his head, pen at the ready, and added “Begin.”

Much like the day before, Malcolm recounted his visits with Martin until his voice was hoarse. He asked for water at one point but Francis just shot him a withering glare for interrupting his narrative, and then sliced down the length of his calf. That was the last time he asked, even though his throat was parched and his head was starting to pound from dehydration.

Francis ran their day exactly as he had promised. He would stop Malcolm every two hours and place the pen and journal back on the table, then choose a scalpel and circle Malcolm, looking for the best place to cut. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason for where he chose – his right bicep and forearm, a long gash above his right nipple, a very painful one on his left shin, and a particularly deep cut on his left side as he struggled to come up with more stories to share as the day went on. Then he would leave the room with the scalpel and return sometime later with the scalpel cleaned, and occasionally with the scent of food lingering on him. Malcolm wasn’t much of an eater at the best of times, but even he was beginning to feel hunger pangs by midday.

With each cut he made, Francis took pictures to place in the journal and continued his detailed writing. Malcolm was starting to feel very much like some sort of laboratory specimen, all that was missing was a microscope.

As far as Malcolm could tell, it was late in the evening when Francis placed the journal on the table, flipping it to the next blank page with an appreciative hum. He ran his fingers over the scalpels and once again chose the center one, and stood directly in front of Malcolm.

“Okay. Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to cut along the bottom of both of your feet. It’s going to make it very uncomfortable for you to stand all night,” his eyes lit up as he said it. “I want you to hurt for your betrayal. You walked away from Dr. Whitly, and I want you to focus on that all night.”

Malcolm was shaking his head slightly, as if he could negate what was about to happen. “Please, you don’t need to do this. I can tell you more. I can tell you everything about Dr. Whitly,” Malcolm hated the pleading tone of his voice, but the thought of the delicate skin on his feet being sliced apart with the razor-sharp scalpel was terrifying.

“You’re going to tell me everything anyway. Now, here’s how this is going to work. I’m going to grab your feet and pull them forward. You’re going to want to take a deep breath first, because you’ll be hanging from your neck while I do it. The more you struggle and move around, the longer it will take and the more likely you are to suffocate, so don’t do that, okay? I still have some questions for you. And I have grand plans to finish you off. So. Deep breath.”

Malcolm’s eyes widened as Francis explained what he was going to do. Before he could even begin to process the final words, Francis had grabbed his feet and yanked them forward. Malcolm's weight dropped into the noose and he immediately started gulping for air, trying to get a breath, but his airway was completely closed off. He began to struggle, trying desperately to get his feet underneath him, but Page held his feet tightly, giving no quarter. It took every ounce of strength and will power that Malcolm had, but he eventually stilled his body.

Page raised an eyebrow, grudgingly respectful of how quickly Malcolm was able to repress his body's natural instincts. He held Malcolm’s bound feet in his left hand, and used his right to slice from the ball of his left foot, directly below the middle toe, straight down to his heel. Malcolm felt the skin separating as the scalpel parted his flesh and he opened his mouth in a silent scream, lacking the air required to make a sound. He tried to yank his feet back, but Francis was prepared and had a strong grip on his ankle.

Tears streamed hot and fast down Malcolm’s face as tried to settle once again, knowing his options were to submit to the horrific pain or die. His vision was already greying at the edges, but he somehow suppressed his panic enough to remember that if he passed out, there was no coming back, no way to regain his balance. So he once again stilled his body, waiting for the next slice of his foot. It came quickly, this time straight across the ball of his right foot, white hot pain searing through his nerves.

Just as he was about to lose consciousness, from the lack of air and the overwhelming pain, Francis lowered his feet to the chair. The pain abruptly changed from the sharp, stinging pain of the initial slice, to a bone deep anguish radiating through his feet, nerves awash in fire. Even still, he stood tall, taking his first gasping breath and letting it out in animalistic howl. Following that one scream, he focused on breathing, the air painfully rasping in through his throat, jittering out in uneven pants.

He grit his teeth, physically attempting to bite down on the pain. His entire body was trembling as he tried to keep upright. Besides the excruciating pain in his feet, the blood was pooling on the chair beneath him, making the slippery surface one more challenge to contend with.

He kept his eyes closed as the tears continued to flow, grinding his teeth and attempting to block out the pain. Even with his eyes closed he was aware of the flash of the Polaroid, extra pictures this time, Page obviously enjoying the pain etched on his face, the tear tracks marking his cheeks.

“Oh Malcolm, you’re making this so good for me.”

Malcolm kept his eyes shut and listened as Page went to the journal and taped the new pictures in. Then he heard his footsteps come back and stop in front of him, heard his ragged breathing. He finally opened his eyes and looked down at Francis, who was looking over his blood streaked body with appreciation.

Once he'd taken in his fill, he looked Malcolm in the eye “I’m going to leave you for the night. With every throb of your blood pulsing in your wounds tonight, I want you to think about the blood flowing through your veins, Dr. Whitly's blood, blood that you didn’t want. Tomorrow we’re going to try to finish what you started.”

Francis left the room, the muffled locking of the door barely registering with Malcolm. His throat was killing him, and he was worried that if there was any swelling from the trauma of nearly being strangled to death, that he might not make it through the night.

“Now would be a good time to save the day, Gil,” he whispered to himself


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I've never written anything like this before, and I'm a little nervous about how the scenes with Malcolm getting hurt are going. Constructive criticism is very welcome!

Gil picked JT up in the morning, as promised. They made their way into the conference room and found Dani already sitting at the table, typing at her laptop. She looked up as they came in, “Morning. How are you feeling?”

“You’ll be stuck with me a while longer,” JT smiled.

Dani returned the smile, then gestured to her laptop, “FBI is still running traffic cams. They definitely headed north, but they haven’t been able to narrow it down much more. I’m worried he may have switched cars.”

JT slowly lowered himself into a chair across the table from her, while Gil sat beside her to see what she was working on.

Sanders came hustling in a few minutes later carrying a tray of coffees and a bag of bagels. “I figured you would all be so anxious to get to work this morning that you probably forgot to stop for breakfast,” He explained as passed out the coffees and placed the bag of warm bagels in the center of the table.

Gil's “Thank you, Robert” and Dani's “Thanks Rob” we’re drown out by JT's groan of appreciation as he took a swig of the strong brew.

“You are a lifesaver, man. I don’t think I could have made it through the day without this.”

Sanders mumbled “you’re welcome” as his cheeks flushed and he busied himself with sorting the folders on the table. Gil made a mental note to try to work with him more often. He was a good man and could do great things with a little guidance, and the chance to work with a team like his.

They quickly settled into investigating the case, with Dani and Sanders heading to the address listed for Jason Martins. It was an old but well maintained home in Queens Village. The small lawn was nicely tended, and the siding looked to have been painted in the last few years. Inside, the main floor was sparsely furnished but clean, with a leather sofa and chair in the living room along with a stand up lamp in the corner, and a small IKEA-type table and chair set in the kitchen.

Upstairs, two of the three bedrooms were empty, the third only containing a single bed and one dresser. It was stark even by minimalist standards. Then they headed to the basement.

He had soundproofed the entire basement. From the outside, they had seen a nice set of wooden blinds in the basement windows, but inside, he had boarded over the windows and soundproofed on top of them. The roof had been dropped slightly and paneled with acoustic tiles as well. The floor was concrete, cracked in some places and stained in many. Near the middle of the room, a pulley was installed on the roof, directly over a drain on the floor. Next to the drain was a small two step plastic stepstool, the kind parents buy for their children so they can reach the sink to brush their teeth.

“What do you bet that this place lights up like a Christmas tree when forensics gets here with the blacklight?” Dani said, looking around at the stains on the floor.

“Yeah,” Sanders replied. “And all our vics were strangled. This looks like the perfect place to hang them.”

They continued their search of the basement, finding nothing of use to aid in their search for Bright. As they headed up the stairs, Dani took a quick look back at the pulley and stool, whispering “hold on Bright,” before she left the basement for the forensics team to handle, and headed back to the station with Sanders.

Meanwhile, Gil was spending more time than he would have liked on the phone with his higher ups, reassuring them that they would apprehend the killer soon. JT continued reviewing the case files, making phone calls and mapping out all of the locations they knew so far – where Malcolm was abducted, Claremont, Jason Martins' home address, where each of the 6 bodies were found – hoping to find some sort of pattern or some clue they may have missed. Bennett had showed up just after 9 and joined JT in his research, but neither had found much of consequence by the time Dani and Sanders returned just after lunch.

“Any luck?” JT asked as they walked through the door?

“I think forensics will have a lot of blood samples to match with our victims, but no sign of where he might be keeping Bright,” Dani said. “Anything here?”

JT shook his head, but just as he was about to fill Dani in on what he and Bennett had been working on, Gil rushed through the door. “Just got a call from Edrisa. A body was discovered matching our killer’s MO. She’s on scene now. Powell, you’re with me.”

Dani was up and following him out of the room before anyone could even respond.

They arrived at the scene – along the shoreline of the Hudson river – in record time. They both bundled their hands into their pockets as they made their way from the car down the stony slope to the body, the brisk wind biting at their exposed skin. Edrisa was crouched down over the head of the waterlogged and bloated body, prying open the eyes and narrating her findings to a nearby assistant.

“Edrisa,” Gil called “what do we have?”

“Our vic is male, mid 40's, multiple cuts covering his body – at first glance, they look to have been made by something like a scalpel, but I’ll be able to give you a more conclusive answer on that once I get the body back to the morgue – and cause of death appears to be strangulation. Judging by the colouration and overlapping placement of the bruises, I would guess that he had been strangled multiple times over the course of a few days. I’d estimate time of death is likely 48 – 60 hours ago, but again, I’ll know more once I get him back to the morgue.” She finally looked up as she finished her spiel, not so casually looking around Gil and Dani, face dropping ever so slightly as she didn’t find what she was looking for.

Gil and Dani exchanged a startled look, Dani arching an eyebrow in a clear 'You’re the boss, you tell her' expression.

“Edrisa,” Gil said, gently placing a hand on her elbow and leading her away from the body. “Malcolm was abducted yesterday by our suspect.”

Her eyes widened almost comically, as her breath left her in a rush. “How… but what… where...” she was having trouble even forming a sentence, she had so many questions.

“I know this is upsetting, but we need all the information you can possibly give us about this victim. Anything you find may give us a lead on finding Bright.”

She was still standing there, mouth agape and blinking up at Gil, as she processed the information. Finally she nodded, a look of determination settling in her eyes. “I will take the body in right now and update you as soon as I find anything that may be relevant.”

“Thank you.”

Edrisa went back to the body, and in short order had the victim loaded up in the van and was on her way to do the most thorough autopsy she had ever performed.

The rest of the day went by in a blur, time passing far to quickly for Gil – who saw every minute of the investigation as another minute that Malcolm was in the hands of a serial killer – but at the same time it seemed as though time was dragging on, minutes taking hours, days never-ending.

Shortly after 9:00 that night they finally caught a break. They ID'd the victim as Harrison Clarke, who had been reported missing three days ago by his wife. Sanders and Dani once again teamed up to go notify Clarke's wife, and to gently question her about her husband.

While they were gone, Gil attempted to talk JT into heading home for the night. He was looking pretty peaky and was definitely not taking the painkillers as often as directed.

“Come on, JT. Bennett's already left for the night, and he’s not even injured. You need to take care of yourself or you won’t heal.”

“Yeah, and I think both of us feel the same way about Bennett. And it’s not sunshine and rainbows.”

As Commanding Officer, Gil was expected to keep his personal feelings separate from his work, but JT was right. He didn’t have much good to say about Bennett. He tilted his head slightly in acknowledgement, but decided to keep quiet.

In the end, Gil was able to convince JT to lay down on the couch in his office for a little bit while they waited for Dani and Sanders to return.

They were back just before midnight, and Dani had a sparkle of hope in her eye. “Mrs. Clarke reported her husband missing a few days ago after he didn’t come home from work one night. Uni's did the preliminary investigation and found that his car was missing too, apparently they thought he had some midlife crisis and drove off into the sunset. If Francis Page had Clarke’s car, maybe that’s why we haven’t been able to track his on the traffic cams. He could have moved Bright into Clarke’s car to avoid being followed.”

“Good work. Let’s update the Feds and see if they can track Clarke's car…” Gil started before Dani cut him off.

“Already called on our way back. Hopefully we’ll have some answers soon.”

Gil admired Dani's ability to remain optimistic, even after all of the bad she’d seen in the world. It was contagious, it seemed, as Gil felt a flare of hope in his chest for the first time since this whole thing started.

They decided to leave JT sleeping in Gil's office, while the three of them started searching through the information they had on Harrison Clarke. They had been at it for hours, multiple cups of stale coffee having been consumed, when Gil got a call from an agent with the FBI. They tracked Clarke’s car up the I-87, as far as the Catskill area. They were still working on narrowing it down further, but were letting him know as a professional courtesy.

Gil thanked the agent and hung up, already standing up and heading to the door. He called out over his shoulder as he walked away “Powell, Sanders, keep digging. I’m going to pay a quick visit to Martin Whitly.”

**********

Malcolm spent the night alternating between sweating profusely and shivering so hard he could barely keep his balance. Any time he adjusted his stance a fresh wave of pain screamed through the deep cuts in his feet. On top of that, although most of the other cuts had clotted and stopped bleeding long ago, the cut in his side was deep enough that any movements he made would start it bleeding again.

Looking at the streaks down his body, and to the pools on the floor, he was starting to get concerned about the amount of blood he had already lost. It was making him woozy already, and he knew that, come morning, things would be getting worse.

He spent almost two hours debating the merits of just kicking the chair out from underneath himself and finishing it on his own terms. There was certainly something appealing about the idea of denying Page his glorious finale. And if he was being honest with himself, he wasn’t sure how much more he could handle. The blood loss, sleep deprivation, dehydration, hunger and fear were combining to break Malcolm down, physically and mentally.

But then he thought about his mother and Ainsley. And Gil. And how disappointed they would be if he just gave up. So every time he started to sag, or whenever the pain took over and left him breathless, every time he felt like giving in, he pictured the faces of the people he loved and he fought through it. And at some point during the night, either very late or very early, depending on how you looked at it, he decided that he would never stop. That he would keep fighting until Page killed him or Gil rescued him.

After he had made that decision, the rest of the night seemed moderately more tolerable. The pain was still almost unbearable and he still felt awful, but he was no longer worried about whether or not he could take it.

When Page finally came back into the room – around sunrise, if the warm glow that crept into the room when he opened the door was any indication – Malcolm was (mostly) ready to face the day. Francis immediately came over to Malcolm to check him over.

“Someone looks determined this morning.” Francis said patronizingly. “I’m happy to see that, Malcolm. Two of the other seven didn’t make it through the second night. They were weak. I figured you’d be stronger than that. Even if you renounce it, you have The Surgeon's blood in your veins. Well...” He chuckled “maybe not for a whole lot longer. But that’s why we're here”

Malcolm tried to glare at him, unimpressed with his sense of humour, but curiosity won out.

“What do you mean? Why exactly are we here? And you said seven. We only found six of your victims.” Malcolm’s voice was little more than a rasp, the swelling from his near strangulation the night before wreaking havoc with his vocal cords.

Page went over to the table and grabbed the camera, taking pictures of Malcolm from various angles. “Hmm. Well I’m sure they’ll be finding number 7 soon enough.” He replied distractedly. He took the photos over to his journal and taped them in, making notations along with each picture, basically ignoring Malcolm the whole time.

Once he had finished, he turned to Malcolm and smiled. “Right!” he said clapping his hands together loudly, his attention focused completely back on Malcolm. “You asked why we’re here. As I said, you renounced your father, you pretend that his blood isn’t flowing through your veins. I’m going to make it so that it no longer is. You don’t deserve the gifts he gave you Malcolm.”

“And you think you do? Is that it? You think that you’re worthy of his love?”

If looks could kill, Malcolm would have been eviscerated. “I would have been the perfect son to him. The perfect student. I would have given anything to belong to him in his infinite glory, and you just toss it all away! You turned your back on him, renouncing him!” Page was screaming up at Malcolm, then suddenly stopped, taking a deep breath to calm himself before continuing, “the others were offerings. To show him how much I admire him. To prove myself to him. But you, Malcolm… I will take your father’s revenge for him, since his is unable to. I will punish you for your disobedience and cowardice. And I will offer your body in hopes that he will mentor me.”

Malcolm stared wide-eyed at him. This guy was nuts. With that little rant, though, some of the pieces fell into place for Malcolm. He already knew that at some point Francis had ended up in foster care, so either his parents died or he was removed from his home. He was able to infer that Francis was raised Catholic but in a severely abusive household, and likely it was his father that beat the shit out of him. He now also knew that Page had bigger daddy-issues than Malcolm himself did, which was certainly impressive. Furthermore, he was delusional, which was bad news for Bright. There was absolutely 0% chance that he would be able to talk himself out of this. Malcolm was the key to unlocking Francis's dreams, he believed that killing Malcolm was the only way to get to Martin.

On the bright side, Malcolm realized he really didn’t have much to lose, so he figured he might as well try for a long shot.

“You know my father loves me, right? That I am one of the only things he has ever loved? How do you think he’s going to react when he finds out you killed me? That you stole something that belongs to him?”

None of the other victims had shown any signs of injury outside of being bled and strangled. But, Malcolm supposed as Francis's fist connected with his sternum, his breath leaving him in a whoosh, none of the other victims had the ability to piss him off like Malcolm did. The first blow was followed in quick succession by two more to his side, the force of which knocked Malcolm clear off the chair and left him dangling in midair. And since he had no breath in his lungs to start with, it was quickly becoming a life or death situation. Fortunately, the chair had only been knocked back, not over, so as Malcolm’s swinging slowed, he was able to get the balls of his feet onto the chair, which was now ever-so-slightly behind him.

The contact of his sliced up feet with the metal chair left him seeing stars, but he stayed put and held himself as tall as he could so that he could lessen the tension on the rope and finally take a breath.

While Malcolm was fighting for his life, Francis had gone over to the table and set his hands widely apart on the ledge, bending nearly in half, the muscles in his arms and back tense and rippling. His breaths were coming out in ragged gasps as he visibly tried to calm himself down. Malcolm had regained his footing and been standing on tip-toe waiting silently for nearly 10 minutes before Francis finally stood up.

He ran his hands down the front of his thighs and took a deep breath as he straightened up. When he turned to face Malcolm, he was actually surprised by the site. Along with the slight angle he was standing at in order to keep his feet on the chair, he was now bleeding profusely, the impact of the two punches having re-opened and increased the damage to the cut on his side.

“I hope that hurts.” He said, staring at him dispassionately. “I’m going to slice you open and bleed you dry, you little fuck.”


	9. Chapter 9

Gil showed up at Claremont before the sun had even risen. Martin was once again sitting on the side of his bed, sleep-mussed and ruffled, when Gil strode in.

“Detective. Is it Malcolm?” he asked, quickly getting to his feet, worry evident in his voice. “Did you find him? Is he…?”

“No, we haven’t found him yet. But we might have a lead. It looks like the killer may have headed to the Catskills. Is there anything there, anything that means something to you?”

Martin blinked at him a few times, scrunching his eyebrows. “There was a spot that I used to go camping. I, I took Malcolm the week before he phoned the police on me.”

“I need the exact location.”

Gil was on the phone with Jessica - who was far too alert for so early in the morning and Gil guessed she was sleeping about as much as he was - as he was walking out front door. “We have a lead, but I need your help. Our killer may be holding Bright at a campground that Martin used to go to in the Catskills. It would take nearly three hours for us to drive there…”

Jessica cut him off “I’ll have a helicopter ready for you in 20 minutes. I’ll text you the location.” She hung up before he could even respond.

He phoned Dani as he made his way to the car, filling her in on the plan, and told her to bring Sanders and Bennett with her. Sanders phoned Bennett, who was not pleased about the early morning wake-up call, and told him they would pick him up on the way.

30 minutes later, Gil, Dani, Sanders and Bennett were airborne, flying alongside a spectacular sunrise. Gil was patched through to JT on his headset, as JT looked into the area in question back at the precinct.

“Okay. Looks like the campground closed down nearly a decade ago. Sold to a developer who built some fancy cedar log houses for the rich and famous.” There was a pause as JT typed, then let out a low whistle. “These things are huge, Gil. And secluded. Large lots, and lots of trees between.”

“Can you narrow down where we need to look?”

“Comparing the location of the campsite number Dr. Crazy gave you with the location of the newly built McMansions, I’d guess you’re going to a 'cabin' belonging to a Mr. and Mrs. Hillcrest.” More awkward, one-handed typing as JT pulled up the basic info on the Hillcrests. “Looks like the Hillcrests have a 10 year old son. Let’s hope they’re not staying there this time of year.”

Gil promised JT that they would keep him updated, and soon they we’re landing as close to their location as the helicopter could manage. Jessica had arranged to have a car waiting for them, and they piled in and set off to the Hillcrest home before the helicopter's blades had even stopped spinning.

**********

“There is something I need to prepare before I kill you.” Page said, shaking with rage. “I was planning on spending another day with you, but I think it’s time to speed up the timetable. If you keep bleeding like that,” Page nudged Bright's side where the blood was flowing steadily, provoking a weak moan, “you'll be dead soon. And I want to savour slicing you open and watching the blood pour from entire body. I want to hear you beg and scream Malcolm. Hang tight, I’ll just be a moment.”

He turned and left the room, and Bright could tell just how quickly he was deteriorating from the fact that there was no click of the lock behind him. Malcolm knew he screwed up. He never should have provoked Page, and now his lifespan was being measured in hours, maybe minutes.

He was also questioning his resolve. It would be so easy to just lean a little farther forwards. He could avoid the pain that Page was about to cause him. His head was spinning and he was having trouble focusing on Jessica and Ainsley and Gil, having trouble remembering why he was fighting so hard at all.

Before Malcolm could take that line of thinking any further, Page threw the door open and stormed into the room, the door bouncing quietly off the soundproof panels and not quite closing all the way. Page still took his time to lift the scalpels, caress them, and pick one out. Then he walked over to Malcolm and raised the scalpel. He brought it up to the inside of Bright's collarbone, pressed in and pulled down, over his pectoral, stopping just below where his ribcage ended. Bright screamed as he felt the metal splitting him open, but focused all his energy on maintaining his footing.

“Yes!” Page yelled, “Scream for me Malcolm.”

**********

The car pulled silently up to the cedar log home, the detectives stepping out and gathering at the rear of the car. JT was right, the place was huge and stunning, definitely built for the upper class. The forest surrounding it was still lush and green, even with the weather starting to turn cold. The nearest neighbours were probably close to a mile away.

“Sanders, Bennett, head around back, see if you can see any signs of a break in. Powell and I will take the front. We don’t have a warrant, so we can’t look around inside unless we come across something to give us probable cause. Keep in touch.” Gil directed.

Sanders and Bennett nodded and headed around the side of the house, guns drawn. Gil and Dani walked cautiously to the front of the house. It was a three story home with massive windows to afford an amazing view of the forest around it. The main entrance looked to be at the top of a grand staircase that led up to a wrap around deck on the second floor. Gil gestured for Dani to check out the ground floor area, while he made his way up to the main doors. He was peeking in through the window of the door when his phone vibrated in his pocket. Without taking his eyes away from the windows in front of him, he pressed the phone to his ear, continuing his search from window to window as he listened to Bennett's update.

“Robert is checking the windows for any signs of a break in. I'm scoping the grounds and I think I may have just come across a fresh grave. You want me to start digging?”

“How sure are you that it’s a grave? If we have reasonable grounds for believing that the owners have been murdered, we’re not going to waste time digging.” Gil responded, already making his way back to the front door. His phone vibrated in his hand and he pulled it away from his ear to find a picture that Bennett had just sent. Definitely a grave.

“Grab Sanders and move in from the back. I’ll let Powell know and we’ll move in from the front. Be careful.”

He phoned Dani and told her to move in just as he heard an anguished wail from inside. Gil had sat with Bright through enough night terrors to recognize that it was unmistakably his scream.

**********

Bright was choking on his tears as the scalpel ran down the entire length of his back. He was barely holding on and knew that the next cut was likely to knock him off the chair. So he said his mental goodbyes and readied himself for the end.

Then suddenly Gil burst into the room, gun drawn, screaming at Francis to drop the scalpel.

Francis moved to put Malcolm between himself and Gil, holding the scalpel up to Malcolm’s carotid artery.

Gil looked at Malcolm, blood streaming down his body and pooling on the floor beneath him, eyes fluttering closed and barely staying upright on the chair that was the only thing keeping him from being strangled by the noose around his neck. His stomach dropped as the rising bile burned in his throat.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen Detective Arroyo,” Page snarled, “we’re slowly going to circle around here, so I’m near the door. You’re going to leave your gun on that table along the way. And once we’ve switched sides, I will leave this room and you can try to save Malcolm before all of his blood is on the outside. If you try anything I will sever his artery.”

Gil only hesitated for a second before deciding that he would do whatever Page asked in order to save Bright and he would hope his team was at the ready to take Page down. So he slowly made his way into the room, leaving his gun on the table as he passed. He was trying to keep his attention focused on Page, but his eyes kept unintentionally flickering up to Bright, terrified of losing him. Finally he was on the far side of the room, and Page was on the side of Malcolm closest to the door.

“Good choice. Just so you know, I always intended to come for you. And Jessica. Everyone who betrayed Him will pay.”

Malcolm was struggling to keep his eyes open, but was keeping them locked on Gil as best he could. You didn’t have to be a profiler to read the worry and desperation in the man's eyes and it was breaking Malcolm's heart, causing a fresh wave a tears to stream down his face. He didn’t ever want to see that look on Gil’s face again. Malcolm felt like a vice was clenching around his heart, splintering it into tiny fragments.

And then everything went to hell. Francis kicked the folding chair with all his strength and then bolted for the door. Bright's weight dropped into the noose, and he finally lost his tenuous hold on consciousness. Gil didn’t even give Page a second thought. He ran to Bright and wrapped his arms around his hips, lifting him upwards.

“Bright!” he hollered, looking up at Malcolm’s face, “Open your eyes, kid!”

He looked around, trying to find some way to get Bright down without letting him go.

“Powell!” he screamed desperately.

Dani came running in, gun drawn and finger on the trigger. Her stomach plummeted when she saw Gil holding up Bright’s blood soaked and lifeless body.

“Oh my God. Bright,” she whispered.

She holstered her gun and ran over to pick up the chair that was laying against the wall and set it up beside Gil. Then she hurried to grab a scalpel from the table.

Gil was continuing his litany of “come on Bright, please open your eyes” as Dani climbed on the chair and started sawing at the rope. It only took a moment and then Bright's body was released, slumping over Gil’s shoulder.

Dani and Gil moved as one to lower Malcolm to the ground. Dani tipped him slightly into his side in order to cut the duct tape off his wrists and then moved quickly to do the same at his ankles. Once he was flat on his back, Gil leaned over him, listening for breath sounds, heart dropping when he found none.

He quickly tilted his head back, plugged his nose and gave him two short breaths mouth to mouth, looking to see if his chest rose as he did. He was concerned that if Bright’s throat had swollen too much from the noose's constriction around his neck, that the air wouldn’t go through and they’d have no way of helping him. Thankfully, the air passed through unimpeded.

He stopped to see if there was a pulse, relieved to feel the slow beat against his fingers. Dani was working on loosening the remnants of the noose from around Bright’s neck as Gil once again brought his lips over Malcolm’s and forced air into his lungs. “Please, Malcolm,” he pleaded as he leaned in a third time, breathing for him once again. It seemed to be the reminder his body needed and he finally took a breath on his own, wheezy and grating as it was.

Gil and Dani both slumped with relief at the beautiful sound, but the reprieve was interrupted by a flurry of gunshots from somewhere in the house. Dani was on her feet with her gun drawn immediately, facing the door, ready to protect her people.

She glanced back at Gil, who gave her a nod and whispered “Go”. Gun still drawn and aimed at the door, she took a few steps over to the table and retrieved Gil’s gun, walking backwards to hand it over to him with a nod, before making her way to the door and carefully exiting the room.

Gil promptly refocused his attention on Malcolm. He tapped his cheek a few times, breathing out a broken “Kid? Come on now, this is no time for a nap… Malcolm, please.”

It wasn’t immediately clear where the worst of the blood loss was coming from, but after a quick once over, Gil found that the wound in his side seemed to be the biggest problem. In a mirror of Dani's actions from a couple of days ago, he quickly slipped out of his coat and then removed his suit jacket and pressed it hard against Bright's side.

Malcolm groaned and his eyes fluttered but Gil still held the pressure. “Can you look at me Bright? Come on now, open your eyes.”

Slowly, Malcolm's eyes opened and he blearily looked up at Gil. The corners of his mouth twitched up as he rasped out an excruciating sounding “you found me.”

“Always, Bright. I’ll always find you.”

Malcolm let out a quiet “thank you” as a tear slipped out of the corner of his eye, before his eyes closed again as he lost the strength to stay awake any longer.

Gil pulled out his phone with one of his blood-covered hands and dialed JT.

“We need medics here, now! I don’t care how you do it, just have some sent. And get some of the local law enforcement out here too, we need back up.” Gil hung up and dropped the phone before JT could even finish the question he had started, and went back to using both hands to apply pressure to Bright’s side.

Several minutes later his phone was vibrating on the floor, Dani’s number flashing on the screen. He answered on speaker, leaving the phone on the floor by his knees.

“How’s Bright?”

His heart warmed a little that Bright was her main concern, even with a killer on the loose. He knew that it had been a tough adjustment for Dani and JT when Bright first joined the team, but over the last few days he'd seen just how much they cared for the strange little profiler.

“Alive. I’ve called for medics and back-up. What have you got.”

“Page got away. Took off on some ATV thing out back. Bennett's dead and Sanders is injured. We also have a kid here. He says Page kept him locked in his room the last few days. He’s terrified, but seems unharmed.”

“How bad is Sanders?” Gil was thankful that the boy was spared, and felt horrible about Bennett, but had to focus on his injured team right now.

“Flesh wound to the arm that’s not a big deal but also a GSW to the leg that’s bleeding a lot. I’ve tied it off but he’ll need help soon.”

“Okay. Stay with Sanders and the boy. Hopefully help will be here soon.”

Gil disconnected the call and settled in to wait, keeping a close watch on Bright’s breathing and pulse, both of which remained blessedly steady. He draped his coat over Malcolm’s frail form when he noticed him shivering, which seemed to ease just a little of the tension in Bright’s face.

Help came surprisingly quickly, considering the remote location. The local PD did a quick sweep of the house and grounds, asking a number of questions before they cleared the medics to come in.

Outside of the room, he could hear one set of paramedics being directed somewhere else in the house, presumably to wherever Sanders, Powell and the boy were. At the same time, another team came through the door and immediately started looking over Malcolm.

“Jesus Christ,” the shorter of the two medics huffed out as he lifted the coat off of Bright’s body. “Do we know what happened?” He turned and asked Gil.

Gil stood up and got out of the way to let them work as he answered. “He was held captive for days by a killer that bleeds and strangles his victims. When we found him he was standing on the chair with a noose around his neck. His throat may be damaged.”

From where Gil was standing he got a straight view of Malcolm’s feet and nearly threw up. He dropped his head and took a breath before looking back up to follow the medics movements.

They had already inserted an IV and were applying bandages to many of the wounds. The taller of the two medics was examining Bright’s throat. There were already livid bruises wrapped around his neck, and Gil thanked God they got here when they did.

Soon, Malcolm was loaded onto the stretcher and the medics were taking him outside to the waiting ambulance. Gil followed along and saw Sanders already being loaded into the second ambulance, Dani standing by the doors of the rig with a terrified looking 10 year old wrapped around her waist.

She didn’t seem to know just what to do and had one arm draped over his shoulders and the other awkwardly patting his head. In any other circumstances, Gil would have laughed at her obvious discomfort, but he was too concerned about his team.

He walked over to Dani and asked “Bennett?”

“The locals are with him. They’re sending out a forensics team and medical examiner.” She replied quietly.

“Who’s your friend?”

The boy looked up at Gil as Dani replied “Gil, this is Ethan. Ethan, this is my boss Gil.” Ethan said a quiet hello but continued holding tightly to Dani.

“Hey buddy. We need to go to the hospital and have you checked out, okay?” Ethan shook his head and squeezed Dani even tighter. “How about if we go in my car? I’ll drive and you can sit in the back with Dani? Would that be okay?”

Ethan hesitated a minute, then nodded. Dani raised an eyebrow at Gil, but Gil just shrugged. They all needed to get to the hospital anyways.

They loaded into the car and followed the ambulances as they left the scene. Gil watched the stately cedar log home fade into the distance in his rearview mirror and realized that it didn't seem quite so beautiful anymore.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it. Thank you all for sticking with the story! Here's a little bit of comfort to wrap things up.

Malcolm required an obscene number of stitches to close all of his wounds. He also needed two blood transfusions to replace the fluids he lost.

Gil stayed by his side whenever the nurses allowed it. Malcolm was in and out of consciousness throughout the day, and every time he woke up it was in a panic, entire body tensing, grasping at his throat and trying to scream. Gil would grab his hands and hold them firmly, talking to Bright in low tones, assuring him that he was safe and that Gil would stay with him and that he could relax. Every time, it took several minutes for Malcolm to calm down, and then he would squeeze Gil’s hands and mouth an apology, and Gil was sure Bright would be blushing if he had enough blood in him to do so. Every time, Gil would tell him to stop apologizing and to rest, and Malcolm would fall into a restless sleep once again, hand entwined with Gil's.

Dani was in and out of the room throughout the day, collaborating with the local PD to clear up the mess. It turned out Page had indeed murdered Mr. and Mrs. Hillcrest and buried them near the tree line out back of the cabin. For reasons none of them understood, he had spared their 10 year old son, locking him in his bedroom after boarding up the window, bringing him meals 3 times a day and generally treating him well. The boy's aunt and uncle were on their way to pick Ethan up. The trauma councilor at the hospital was confident that with some counseling and the support of his family that he would be okay in time.

Dani used the excuse of keeping Gil updated on the case as to why she was visiting so often, but he saw through her detached demeanour and knew she was coming to check in on Malcolm. She would stand beside him, chewing on her lip, watching him in his uneasy sleep until she had assured herself that he was out of harm's way. And then she would hurry back out of the room, mumbling about getting back work on the case.

She marched in shortly after lunch with a look of barely restrained fury burning behind her eyes, the likes of which Gil had never seen in her before. She was holding an evidence bag with what looked to Gil like a journal, clutched tightly to her chest in shaking hands. Concerned, Gil came to her side and asked if she was alright, but she just shook her head and told him he didn’t need to know. She stood beside Malcolm, holding one of his hands in hers until the rage seemed to subside ever so slightly, then left once again, trying to blink back the tears in her eyes.

It was late afternoon when Jessica and Ainsley blew into the room, all worried looks and nervous energy, clinging to one another for support. Gil had called Jessica as soon as they got to the hospital and ensured her that Malcolm was safe and they didn’t need to rush. Jessica decided to wait for Ainsley's flight to arrive from an out of town Press and Media conference before heading up to the hospital.

Gil put a finger to his lips just as Jessica was taking a breath to start in on a barrage of questions. He gently placed Malcolm’s hand onto his stomach and quietly got up from his chair beside the bed, gesturing for the girls to follow him into the hallway.

“He’s going to be fine,” Gil started with what they obviously needed to hear. “You should be prepared for when you see him, though, that he looks pretty rough.”

“What exactly did that psychopath do to my son?”

Gil shook his head and looked away, prepared to tell them that it would be best for them to not know the details, but Jessica stopped him in his tracks.

“Gil. I know you want to be the hero and protect everyone but he is my son and he will need us to be there for him as he recovers. I cannot provide him with the help he needs if I don’t know what was done to him.”

Jessica seemed so sincere in her desire to help Malcolm that Gil really couldn’t argue.

“I can’t tell you everything that happened,” Gil held up his hands in a placating gesture as Jessica was getting ready to give him hell. “I’m not holding back information, we just haven’t been able to question Malcolm yet. He’s been in and out all day. But the killer cut him. A lot. He was trying to bleed him out.”

Ainsley's face fell as the colour drained from her cheeks, but Jessica looked like her legs were about to give out. Gil reached out and placed a steadying hand at her elbow, leading her to the row of chairs lining the wall. The fact that she didn’t resist was enough to tell Gil that she would certainly be better off sitting. He sat her down and gestured for Ainsley to sit beside her, then he perched on the seat beside them, leaning forward so he could see both Jessica and Ainsley clearly.

“He’s had a couple of blood transfusions and the doctor says he may still need another one. The cuts will take time to heal, but he is out of the woods as far as danger goes.” He gave Jessica's hand a squeeze and she tried (and failed) to smile at him in return. “He was also strangled with a rope, on more than one occasion. So there is a lot of bruising around his throat and the doctors say he has a bruised larynx. He won’t be talking much for a while.”

“Well, I guess there’s a silver lining then,” Ainsley joked, trying to lighten the mood. Jessica let out a watery laugh and Gil offered a small smile at Ainsley's attempt to break the tension.

They heard some agitated rustling coming from Malcolm’s room and Gil was off like a shot. He was beside Malcolm’s bed before Jessica and Ainsley had even made it to the door. They watched as he took hold of Malcolm's hands as they were clawing at his neck and heard the reassuring tone of his voice, even though they couldn’t make out the words he was saying. They stood there, feeling helpless, as Malcolm slowly came around and Gil smiled down at him.

“Hey kid, your mom and sister are here,” he said quietly, still holding tightly to Bright's hands. Malcolm did a brilliant impression of a deer caught in the headlights, so Gil continued on “they already know what happened. You don’t need to worry about hiding anything, okay?”

Malcolm nodded hesitantly, and Gil looked over to the frozen forms in the doorway, gesturing them in with a pull of his head, still refusing to let go of Bright's hands. Jessica and Ainsley went to the other side of the bed and Malcolm tenderly turned his head to face them, still keeping a death grip on Gil’s hands.

“Hey Mal,” Ainsley whispered, while Jessica tenderly brushed a lock of hair off of his forehead. Malcolm's lips quirked up at the edges, an attempt to reassure them that he was alright. He opened his mouth to tell them that they didn’t need to worry, but all that came out was a grating croak which scraped and scratched at his aching throat, making him flinch from the pain and leaving him with watering eyes.

“Shhhh,” Jessica lightly reprimanded. “Gil says you won’t be able to talk for a while. Maybe you can take this time to reflect on your career choices?”

Malcolm smiled indulgently at Jessica and then glanced over at Ainsley, sharing a look of commiseration. Malcolm started laughing first (more of a pained and nearly silent wheeze, than a laugh), Ainsley joining in right away. Jessica's scandalized expression set Gil off, and eventually Jessica broke down and joined in too.

It only lasted a moment as Malcolm’s face soon scrunched up with pain and he finally let go of Gil's hands to wrap his arms around his torso, the laughter agitating the wound on his side. The smiles quickly faded as Gil, Jessica and Ainsley all leaned in, wanting to help and feeling powerless to do so. Once the pain had eased slightly, Malcolm opened his eyes and slowly loosened his hold on himself, huffing a breathless “sorry”.

“It’s okay Bright. Do you think you can try and sleep a little more?” Gil asked, hand clasping Malcolm's once again.

He gave an exhausted nod and closed his eyes as Jessica leaned over to kiss his forehead, imploring him to take care of himself. Ainsley followed suit, telling Malcolm that they would be back soon and to please rest. All three of them started to leave, but Malcolm gripped Gil's hand as he started to pull it away. He didn’t even open his eyes, just grabbed on and held tight.

Jessica looked at their clasped hands and then up at Gil’s face as he gazed down at Malcolm. The worry was clear, anyone could see that. But Jessica had known Gil for 20 years and could see the pride and the heartbreak and the anger that were hidden beneath it. She caught Gil's eye and gave him a sad smile. As much as she would like to be the person that her son needed, she knew she wasn’t, and Malcolm’s comfort was far more important than her pride at the moment. So with a nod, she stood tall and left the room.

Ainsley watched her mother leave the room, understanding instinctively just how much it must eat at her that Gil was the one Malcolm held onto. But she couldn’t begrudge him taking comfort where he could and Gil had always, always been there for Malcolm. And so she crossed over to the other side of the hospital bed and wrapped her arms around Gil, who seemed genuinely shocked but still returned the hug one-armed, the other hand still tightly holding Bright's. She kissed him softly on the cheek and whispered a heartfelt thank you in his ear before following her mother out of the room.

Gil stared after them for a moment, dumbfounded, eyebrows nearly in his hairline. Then he gave his head a shake and looked down to see Malcolm looking back at him, an honest smile on his face, crinkling his eyes at the corners.

Gil huffed out a chuckle as he settled himself back into his chair, shaking his head once again, wondering how this dysfunctional family somehow became so damn important to him.

In a moment of pure sentimentality, he was tempted to tell Malcolm that he loved him, and that he didn’t know what he would have done if he hadn’t gotten to him in time. Instead, he squeezed his hand and said “Go to sleep, kid.”

**********

Two very long days were spent in the hospital in the Catskills before Malcolm had the strength to sign himself out AMA. Everyone tried to talk him into staying longer but no one was surprised when he refused to listen. He did promise to take it easy at home for a couple of weeks, and even agreed to let Jessica send a health care aide once a day to check on him and clean his wounds.

The car ride back to the city was a different kind of torture, for Gil and Malcolm both. Every bump and turn left Malcolm cringing, occasional gasps of pain escaping when he couldn’t hold it in any longer. Gil wanted nothing more than to wrap him in cotton gauze and take the pain away, and bristled at his own inability to help or comfort the kid.

Malcolm was true to his word and stayed almost exclusively inside his apartment for three weeks. He had plenty of visitors during that time, though. Gil came twice a day for the first week, before and after work, to make sure he was truly taking care of himself. He'd sometimes bring takeaway with him, sometimes a movie. Often they’d just sit and talk. Jackie came up regularly in those conversations and they would remember her with fond smiles, exasperated chuckles and a warmth that neither of them had felt in over three years.

Near the end of Malcolm’s first week home, Gil picked him up in the morning, somber in his dress blues, and helped Bright very slowly down the stairs and out to his car. Medically, Malcolm wasn’t really ready to be out and walking – he had air casts on both feet and required crutches to keep his weight off his healing feet, on top of which he was still covered in stitches and gauze - but Detective Greg Bennett had lost his life saving Malcolm’s and Malcolm had every intention of paying his respects.

The service was a solemn affair with a respectable turnout. His former chief spoke of Bennett’s rise to detective and Sanders gave a touching eulogy, remembering all the best that Bennett had been. Malcolm had originally wanted to say a few words, to thank the man for his sacrifice, but was unsure of the reception he would receive, worried that the other officers may feel Bennett’s death was Bright’s fault (it would be months before he confessed this to Gil, who would sigh and pull Malcolm in for a hug, reassuring him that no one, not a single person, blamed him for Bennett's death).

Gil brought Bright home following the service and they toasted Bennett with some very fine scotch. After that day, Gil cut his visits down to once a day, knowing Bright was doing okay on his own.

JT and Dani seemed to have set up a schedule so that one of them dropped by every day or two, as well.

At first, JT and Bright would generally sit on the couch, watching whatever happened to be on, asking about one another’s injuries without ever making eye contact. Bright’s voice was slowly returning but still sounded gravelly and raw as he asked about JT’s healing gunshot wound, which JT waved off with grunt. Malcolm, for his part, continued with his standard “I’m fine” in response JT's questions. A few days in, JT, apropos of nothing, suddenly apologized for not having Bright’s back in that alley, for letting him down when he should’ve been there to protect him. The entire stilted apology was delivered stiff-backed and with clenched fists, JT never taking his eyes off of Gordon Ramsey as he screamed about undercooked filet mignon. Malcolm turned in shock, facing him with wide eyes (as well as a wince from having moved so quickly).

“Seriously?” he rasped. “JT, that was all on me. I shouldn’t have taken off like I did. I was an FBI agent for years and I know better than to run blindly into unknown surroundings. It’s my own fault I was taken. And it was my fault you were shot.” Malcolm looked away, trying to swallow down the guilt he was feeling, but as JT glanced sideways, he could see it written all over his downcast face.

JT huffed out sigh. “Bright, you’re an idiot.”

Malcolm blinked up in surprise.

“I swear, only you would feel guilty about being kidnapped and tortured by a serial killer.”

Malcolm offered a sheepish smile. After that, things were easier between the two of them. They started to really get to know each other and Malcolm even began to look forward to his visits.

Dani, on the other hand, visited like she lived there. She made herself at home in the kitchen and cooked the most delicious and decadent family recipes, and made it clear with a sharp look that she expected Bright to eat. He would sit on a barstool while she maneuvered through his kitchen, trading stories of serial killers and petty thieves, society functions and block parties. Malcolm shared more of himself with her in those few weeks than he ever had with any friend or lover in his past.

Ainsley texted and phoned him constantly, but slowed down on the visits, recognizing that Malcolm needed some space. She knew her brother would likely hold everything in and try to deal with the mental trauma on his own, as he usually did, but she made sure to tell him everyday that she was there if he wanted to talk. He would roll his eyes and say “I know, Ains” and they would move on to other topics of conversation.

Jessica showed up randomly, bustling in with bags of groceries or containers of pills or bottles of gin (or vodka, or whiskey, or cognac). She’d blow in like a tornado, a whirlwind of chaos for 15 minutes or so, and then she’d retire in a flurry of apologies for leaving so soon, but there are so many things to attend to, and the charitable work never ends, and do take care of yourself darling, it wouldn’t do to pull any of the stitches…

Even Robert Sanders stopped by a couple times. He came by the first time to see how Malcolm was doing, carefully making his way up the numerous flights of stairs on his crutches. It was mostly awkward looks and stilted conversation for the first half hour or so. Malcolm eventually came out and thanked Sanders for helping to find him and apologized for his getting shot in the process. Sanders made a joke about chicks diggings scars, then turned about 30 shades of red when Malcolm looked down at his own body then back up at Sanders with a raised eyebrow. He stuttered out an apology and Bright let out an honest to God laugh. Once the ice was broken and they were able to have a normal conversation, it turned out that they actually liked each other and could maybe even be friends.

Edrisa came by once. It was awkward and adorable. He knew she had a bit of a crush on him, and he tried not to lead her on while still being friendly, because he really did like her. She was intelligent and brilliant at her job and they had many interests in common. And he was touched by how worried she had been about him. She was good people and he was proud to know her.

As much as Malcolm hated convalescing at home - hated the enforced stillness and isolation, despised the pity he sometimes saw in his visitor's eyes – he also felt an unfamiliar warmth inside knowing that there were people in his life who cared about what happened to him. Of course, Jessica and Ainsley would always be there. They were family. And Gil was… Gil. Not quite family but something so much more. 

But now there was JT and Dani, too. And maybe even Sanders and Edrisa. He’d never been very good at making friends; he knew that he was peculiar and erratic and difficult to be around at times, and he had learned early on that people could be incredibly cruel to a boy whose father was so fiercely reviled. That lesson was hard to unlearn, and he still struggled to let people in. But somehow, he had managed not to scare away these people. And somehow, they had managed to surreptitiously make their way into his heart.

And so, his few weeks at home weren’t as awful as he'd expected. Well. Except for increased night terrors. And the healing wounds. That was horrid. He couldn’t sit, stand or lay without ending up on one of his sets of stitches. Most of the cuts were well on their way to closing after a week or so, but the ones on his feet, side and back were slower to heal.

It was nearly three weeks before he was able to go visit his father.

Jessica had begrudgingly let Martin know that Malcolm had been found, alive, and that he was home healing, but that was the only information he was given. When Malcolm carefully walked into his cell one afternoon, Martin was nearly bouncing with excitement. His smile faltered a little as he noted how tenderly Malcolm was moving; placing each foot carefully down before putting his weight on it to move forward, the way he held his side as he sat on the metal chair, making sure not to lean back against the backrest. The fact that he sat at all was worrying. Malcolm usually remained standing, should the need for a quick exit arise.

“Malcolm, my boy. How are you?”

Malcolm took a moment to read his father. He seemed less guarded than usual, willingly opening himself to Malcolm’s scrutiny.

Malcolm had been called many, many things in his life, but no one has ever accused him of being stupid. He knows his father is a liar and a sociopath, and he is aware that he could easily be faking his emotions for his son's benefit. There were myriad reasons why Martin might want Malcolm to think he cared. But even knowing this, Malcolm truly believed that the worry and relief and tenderness that he was reading on his father’s face and in his bearing was genuine. And he wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a very, very bad thing.

“I’ll live,” he finally answered.

Martin stepped closer and tried to reach forward, but the tether to the wall and the cuffs holding his hands to the belt prevented the movement. It was clear that he wanted to reach out, whether it was to assure himself that Malcolm was really alright or to comfort him, Malcolm wasn’t quite sure. But he stayed where he was, seated against the wall, far from Dr. Whitly's reach.

“Malcolm. I’m sorry this happened to you. Because of me.” Martin took a step back and cast his eyes down. “I, uh, well, no one has really filled me in on what exactly happened. But I can see that you’re hurt.”

Malcolm could hear the question that his father wasn’t asking in the hesitant tone he used.

“He put a noose around my neck, left me standing on a chair for a couple of days, all while intermittently coming in to interrogate me about you and to slice me open with your scalpels.”

A look of horror contorted Martin’s face, followed by a flash of anger that had Malcolm sitting upright, his body preparing for retreat before his mind had a chance to catch up. But the anger was gone almost immediately and was quickly followed by an apologetic smile as Martin noticed Malcolm’s reaction.

“I am sorry, Malcolm. Truly. That never should have happened.”

Malcolm took a deep breath and asked what he had come to ask. “Do you have any insights as to where Francis Page would have gone?”

The manhunt for Page had been ongoing since that day in the woods, but there had been no sign of Page anywhere. Fortunately, no additional bodies had turned up either. Most of the people working the case thought that he had left the state, but Malcolm knew that Page would be compelled to stay near the object of his obsession.

“I told Detective Arroyo that I never met the man.”

“That doesn’t mean you don’t know where he would go. He took me to the spot where you used to go camping.” Malcolm’s hand started trembling ever so slightly. “Where you took me camping just before you were arrested. You’re his reason for being. He's probably hiding somewhere that means something to you, so he can still feel close to you. I think you know exactly where he would go.”

Martin smiled, chest swelling with pride. His boy was good. So good. He was, unfortunately, very well suited to be a profiler, with his heightened observational skills and above-average intellect. It wasn’t what Martin had envisioned for him, but at least he found something he would excel at.

“Oh, Malcolm. I’m so proud of you. You always were the sharpest one in the room.”

Malcolm tilted his head slightly and huffed out a breath. “Can we forego the positive parental praise and get to finding the serial killer that has vowed to come after myself, Gil and mother?”

“He hurt you, Malcolm. He tried to take you away from me.”

Malcolm carefully stood, eyes darting back and forth over Martin’s face. “What did you do?”

“I protected my family, of course. He won’t be coming after you Malcolm, I made sure of that.” Martin said assuredly, much the same way he used to tell Malcolm that there were no monsters in his closet.

“How?” Malcolm asked, eyebrows drawn.

“I reached out to a… colleague.” He said, eyes shifting to the side. “He was happy to do me a favour.” He smirked, eyes wrinkling. “Oh! And if you were worried about revenge, you don’t need to be. Back when I was… well, before I ended up here, I spent a great deal of time studying how to cause the most amount of pain that the human body could bear. Now, usually I wouldn’t be willing to impart that wisdom to just anyone, but these were extraordinary circumstances. I’ve been assured that Mr. Page was made to feel all of his… indiscretions.”

Martin looked quite pleased with himself, head held high and chest puffed out, like he had just performed some great and noble act and was awaiting accolades and laurels. 

Malcolm stood dumbfounded, shaking his head slightly in disbelief. “I have to go,” he finally managed to whisper, turning to the door and waiting for the buzzer to sound.

“Oh,” Martin sounded disappointed, “But you just got here.”

Malcolm opened the door as the buzzer sounded and began to walk away, pausing briefly when his father called out as the door was closing behind him.

“I’ll see you next week, my boy. I’m looking forward to our weekly visits!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously I don't own the characters, I'm just borrowing them for a bit.
> 
> Google and I became very close during the writing process, as I know nothing about police procedure, hospitals, serial killers, New York, people in general... Anyhow, mistakes are my own.
> 
> Fun fact, when looking up what kind of rope would have been used to make Malcolm's noose, the first search result Google gave me was for the Canadian Suicide Prevention site. So, thanks Google for looking out for us :)


End file.
